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maddyjones2 · 3 months ago

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On not idolising creative people

In the wake of the various recent allegations involving Neil Gaiman, people have been both very sad that someone who they looked up to as an inspiration has, allegedly, turned out to be something less than entirely admirable, and are now looking to see who is now left that they can rotate into the spot of “the good dude,” i.e., that one successful creative guy who they think or at least hope isn’t hiding a cellar full of awful actions. One name I see brought up is mine, in ways ranging from “Well, at least we still have Scalzi,” to “Oh, God, please don’t let Scalzi be a fucking creep too.” Which, uhhhh, yeah? Thanks?

I have many thoughts about this and I’m going to try to make sense of them here, as much for myself as anyone else, so this may be messy and discursive and long (seriously, 3600 words, y’all), but, well, welcome to me. So, ordered by how these things come out of my head:

1. Stop Idolizing Creative People. Creative people are easy to idolize because they create the art you love, and that gives you permission to feel things, and to see yourself and your desires reflected in that art. That is a powerful thing, and from the outside, it can feel like magic, and that the people who do it are tapped into something otherworldly and admirable. Plus, they often get to have cool lives and get to know other cool creative people. They do things that are removed from the day-to-day aspect of a “normal” life, and they’ll even post about them on social media where you can see them. Sometimes, independent of their art directly, they’ll speak about their life, or life in general, and they’ll seem wise and considered and kind. I mean, what’s not to like?

But please consider that this is all an extremely mediated experience of this person. The art is the edited and massaged result of hours and days and weeks and months of work, into which the work of many others is also added. My novels originate from me, but it’s not just me in there, nor is the final form of the novel an accurate statement of who I am as a person, not least of all for the simple reason that I am not trying to tell my story in my novels. I’m creating fictional characters, and the world in which they make sense, for the purpose of the story.

Despite how it might look from the outside, this is not sorcery. It’s years of experience at a craft. It’s not magic, just work. A completed novel (or any other piece of art) won’t tell you much about the specific, day-to-day life and inclinations of the individual who made it, other than a general nod toward their competence, and the competence of their collaborators. Likewise what you see of their lives, even from the illusorily close vantage of social media, is deeply mediated. Lives always look admirable at a distance, when you can only see the lofty peaks and not the rubble at the base — especially when your attention by design is pointed at those lofty peaks. There’s much you don’t see and that you’re not meant to see. The vast majority of what you’re not meant to see isn’t nefarious. It’s just not your business.

Now, before I was a professional creative person, I was an entertainment journalist who spent years interviewing writers, directors, movie stars, musicians, authors and other creative folks. Since I’ve been on the other side of the rope, I’ve likewise met a huge range of creative people from all walks of life. Please believe me when I assure you that creative people are just people. Richer and/or more famous? Sometimes (less often than you might think, though). Prettier and/or more charismatic? Especially if they’re actors or pop stars, often yes! But at the end of the day they are just folks, and they run the whole range of how people are. By and large, the day-to-day experience of getting through their life is the same as yours. Outside of their own specific field of work, they don’t know any more about life, have no more facility for dealing with the world, and have just as few clues about what’s going on in their own head, as anyone else.

They’re just people. Whose work is making the stuff you like! And that’s great, but that’s not a substantive basis for idolizing them. It makes no more sense to idolize them than to idolize a baker who makes cookies you like, or the guy who comes and trims your hedges the way you want them to be trimmed, or the plumber who fixes your clogged drain. You can appreciate what they do, and even admire they skill they have. But holding them up as a life model might be a bit much. Which is the point! If you’re not willing to idolize a plumber, then you shouldn’t idolize a creative person.

(“But a plumber doesn’t make me feel like a creative person does,” you say, to which I say, are you sure about that? Because I will tell you what, when my sump pump stopped working and the plumber got in there, replaced the pump and started draining out my basement which had an inch of standing water in it, that man was the focus of all my emotions and was my goddamned hero that day. My plumber that day did more for me than easily 90% of the great art I’ve ever experienced.)

Enjoy the art creative people do. Enjoy the experience of them in the mediated version of them you get online and elsewhere, if such is your joy. But remember that the art is from the artist, not the artist themselves, and the version of their life you see is usually just the version they choose to show. There is so much you don’t see, and so much you’re not meant to see. At the end of the day, you don’t have all the information about who they are that you would need to make them your idol, or someone you might choose to, in some significant way, pattern some fraction of your life on. And anyway creative people aren’t any better at life than anyone else.

Which brings up the next point:

2. Fuck idols anyway! People are complicated and contradictory and you don’t know everything about them! You don’t know everything even about your parents or siblings or best friends or your partner! People are hypocrites and liars and fail to live up to their own standards for themselves, much less yours! Your version of them in your head will always be different than the version that actually exists in the world! Because you’re not them! Stop pretending people won’t be fuck ups! They will! Always!

This sounds more pessimistic about humans than perhaps it should be. When I say, for example, that people are hypocrites and liars, I don’t mean that people take every single opportunity to be hypocrites and liars. Most people are decent in the moment. But none of us — not one! — has always lived up to our own standard of behavior, and all of us have had the moment where, when confronted with a situation that would become an immense pain in the ass if we stuck to our guns, or demanded the inconvenient truth, decided to just bail instead, because the situation wasn’t worth the drama, or we had somewhere else to be, or whatever. We all choose battles and we all make the call in the moment, and sometimes the call is, fuck this, I’m out.

Every person you’ve ever admired has fucked up, sometimes really badly. Everyone you’ve ever looked up to has secrets, and it’s possible some of those secrets would materially change how you think about them, not always for the better. Everyone you’ve ever known has things about them you don’t know, many of which aren’t even secrets, they’re just things you don’t engage with in your day-to-day experience of them. Nevertheless it’s possible if you were aware of them, it would change how you feel about them, for better or for worse. And now let’s flip that around! You have things about you that even your best friends don’t know, and might be surprised to learn! You have secrets you don’t wish to share with the class! You have fucked up, and lied, and have been a hypocrite too!

You are, in short, a human, as is everyone you know and every one you will know (pets and gregarious wild animals excepted). And all humans are, charitably, a mess. This doesn’t mean there aren’t good people or even exemplary people out there, since there are, along with the ones that are, charitably, a real shit show. What I am saying is that even the good or exemplary people out there are a mess, have been morally compromised at some point in their lives, and have not lived up to their own standards for themselves, independent of anyone else’s standard for them.

One of the aspects of being an “idol,” I think, is that higher standard that other people expect of you — that in every situation where the aspect they idolize you for is in play, you will act in a manner that is right and correct by their standard, which of course you will likely not know about because you don’t actually know them (or often know that they exist). This is, by definition, an impossible standard to be held to — you didn’t agree to it, or to engage with it — and an impossible standard to hold other people to without their direct consultation. Every human made to be an idol is destined to fail at the job. You don’t even have to have feet of clay! You just didn’t know you were on a pedestal to begin with.

(This does not excuse shitty action. The fact people should not be idols in the first place is not exculpatory for the choices one makes on one’s own. If you’re sexually assaulting people, or being a racist or sexist or homophobe or other flavor of bigot, or using your situational power coercively (as just a few examples), then hell yes you are going to be called out on it. And to be clear, it is not unreasonable, to put it mildly, to expect people not to sexually assault other people, or not to denigrate other humans for being who they are, etc. But this only adds to the point about idols, now, doesn’t it. You don’t know what you don’t see, and you don’t know what you’re not seeing, until it is hauled out into the light one way or the other. If it is hauled out into the light at all.)

I don’t think anyone should idolize anyone, ever. It’s not great for them, and it’s not great for you, they probably didn’t ask to be idolized (and if they did, holy shit, fucking run), and in the end unless you’re so completely wrapped up in their lives that they have no secrets from you — which is never — you don’t know enough to make that call. People do it anyway, and then disappointment happens, but they shouldn’t have done it in the first place. Stop idolizing people. It’s not fair for anyone.

What to do instead? Enjoy their work, if they’re a creative person. Appreciate the kind and good aspects of their life that you can see, and the decent actions they undertake in public, with the knowledge that what you see of them is a mediated and elided version. Understand that we all have a different version of ourself for every person we meet, and that every person we meet has a different vision of ourselves in their head, and very often, those two versions are not the same. Like them, based on what you know of them! Love them, if it comes to that. And when and if you learn something new about them that you didn’t know before, let empathy guide you to a new understanding of them and what they mean to you.

And now, taking all of the above into consideration:

3. Absolutely 100% do not idolize me. I don’t deserve to be idolized because no one deserves to be idolized, but also, holy fuck, I do know me and I’m a mess. There have been lots of things in my life that I’ve done that have not been admirable or kind. I can be petty and shitty and competitive and cruel. I am lazy and inattentive and when I let things slide (which is often), I end up jammed up on my responsibilities, which makes me irritable and no fun to be around. I have a temper which goes from zero to sixty almost instantaneously; if I’m not actively paying attention to it, I can become a sudden, unreasonable rage monster, which is a burden to people I love, and I hate that fact about myself (pro tip: don’t travel with me, the rage monster comes out a lot then).

I can be controlling and demanding but I want other people to handle the details, i.e., executive asshole. I am strategic in a way that can be bloodless. When I’m insecure I brag a lot, which is unflattering. If you cross me, I won’t go out of my way to make your life miserable (that would require effort on my part), but I will absolutely enjoy when you take a literal or metaphorical tumble down the stairs. God knows I’ve enjoyed the failures of the people who have spoken ill of me, almost as much as I’ve enjoyed the fuming, spittling rage they’ve felt when I’ve succeeded. I spent years cultivating a snarky persona online and while that was fun (for me), I’m increasingly aware that when the tally is added up for Who Ruined the Internet, I’m not necessarily going to be where I want to be on that particular ledger.

And these are only the bad qualities of mine I wish to admit to you at the moment. There are others, I assure you.

So, yes: Who wants to idolize me now?

“But you seemed so nice when I chatted with you online/met you at the convention/saw you at that one place that one time.” Well, thank you, I’ve been in the public eye in one manner or another for three and a half decades now and I understand my assignment; my public persona is friendly and engaging and sociable and mostly fun to be with. It’s not a fake version of me — I am all those things! Honest! — but, again, it’s a mediated version of me designed not only to be a positive experience for the people who meet me but also to get my actually introverted ass through a whole day of events at a convention/festival/book tour/whatever. When I’m done I collapse into an introverted hole. When I came back from Worldcon this week, I slept for 15 hours the first day I was home. It wasn’t just because of jet lag or con crud.

I rather famously call my public face “performance monkey mode,” and likewise what I say about my (current) online mode is that I’m cosplaying as a better version of myself, one that is kinder than I used to be online, and more patient than I am in the real world. If you meet me when I am “off” then you will find that, again, these versions of me are me, just with some things dialed up and other things dialed down. But even that is still a different version of me than, say, the version of me which is at home (which is in fact extremely boring; that version of me doesn’t talk much and mostly stays in my office).

Many of you who have followed me over the years are familiar with me saying things like this, of course, and are likewise familiar with me pointing out that there are a number of things about my life that I don’t mention in public, for whatever reasons I choose. But it’s also true that I’ve been actively online for 30+ years now, and people feel reasonably confident that they have a good bead on me and that there’s not much about me that will surprise them or change their understanding of me. So to bring home the point there are indeed things you don’t know, allow me to surface just one previously unaired fun fact:

I have a concealed carry license.

(Or did; it expired this year and I didn’t renew it, because Ohio changed its laws so that you no longer need a permit to conceal carry in the state. These days in Ohio you can just wander about with a handgun stuffed down your trousers without training or licensing because that’s a real good idea, now, isn’t it. Nevertheless, the license is not necessary anymore so there was not much point in renewing it, although if the law had not changed, I probably would have renewed.)

Why did I have a concealed carry license? Well, ultimately that’s not important. The point is I had one. I didn’t talk about it before because, among other things, the point of a concealed carry license (to me, anyway) is that its existence is not meant to be known by anyone other than that great state of Ohio itself. I am aware, and this is a dramatic understatement, that I am not a person most people would expect to have had such a thing. That the fact I had one will cause a number of people to reconsider what they know about me, for better or for worse. Which is also my point. All y’all have just learned this thing about me! Think about all the other things you don’t know!

Oh, God, this is where Scalzi starts admitting to terrible, terrible things. No. I feel pretty confident I live a tolerably ethical life. Part of the reason for this is that I have what I think is a decent operating principle, which is: If I’m thinking of doing something, and Krissy called me right then and asked “what are you doing?” and I would be tempted to lie to her about it, then I don’t do that thing. Because Krissy is the most important person in my life, and I don’t want to lie to her about what I’m doing (I have lied to her exactly once. She knew instantly. I haven’t bothered lying to her since). This is not replacing Krissy’s ethics with my own; it’s me knowing whether by my own ethics, I would be ashamed to tell to her what I am up to. It works very well. As such, the Krissy Test is an operating principle I highly suggest to others, although I’d suggest replacing Krissy with whomever your life is most important to you.

Be that as it may, my ethics are not universal and some others might not find them sufficient, for whatever reason. I am well aware I still disappoint many people, and that there are people who find my life choices, known positions or public statements (or lack of them, as the case may be) problematic, or who simply wish I would be other than what I am. I can’t help them with this, but again, this is the point. Given the fact that I am a fallible human who has an entire stratum of his life not visible to the world — and the strata of his life that are visible cause significant numbers of people to be irritated and exasperated — is it not better just to not hold me up as an ideal person, or the “good dude,” much less an idol of any sort?

I mean, shit. What Would John Scalzi Do? Solidly half the time, I have no fucking idea. I have to think about it, whatever it is. I have to think about whether I know enough to do or say something about it. I have to decide whether it’s something I want to engage with at all, and whether my engagement with it is something that would be of value to anyone, me included. I have to decide whether engaging with it is worth the shit I will get for it. And then I have to figure out what it means that I am engaging with it, since like it or not I’m a Dude of Reasonable Significance in My Field. I try to be a decent human, when people are looking at me and especially when they are not. But I also know me, and all my flaws and weaknesses and compromises.

What Would John Scalzi Do? The best he can, in the moment. Is that sufficient? For me, yes, most of the time. Is that sufficient for you? That’s up to you.

The point to this all is that people are just a big fucking mess, including the ones you might for whatever reason find admirable. I am no different than anyone else, and you should not be under the illusion that I am anything other than a shambling collection of flaws embedded inside a human form, which also, in its defense, has some pretty excellent qualities as well. We’re all this way! You too!

And while I want you to like my work, and to enjoy the version of me that you see here and elsewhere, don’t put me, or any other person, on a pedestal. Pedestals are wobbly and and don’t give actual humans a lot of room to move. We will inevitably fall off. Keep us with our feet on the ground. That way, when we stumble, there’s a chance we can get back up, and keep going.

— JS

#good omens #david tennant #michael sheen #neil gaiman allegations

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alchemistc · 4 months ago

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(dys)functional | bucktommy 1/1

an: the hockey au keeps growing, have some tommy whump in the meantime

read on ao3

"Hey," Tommy says, rolling the word over his tongue, letting the door close behind him and leaning his head back against it as it goes. Evan glances up, and immediately sets the knife in his hands down, expression going concerned the moment he sees the look on Tommy's face.

"Uh wha - what's wrong?"

The concern in his voice is ratcheted up in a way Tommy doesn't quite understand - he knows the look on his face is a little resigned but Evan looks stressed. "I'm gonna have to reschedule our weekend," he tells him, already shifting away from the door, moving in, chasing after the distressed little tilt of Evan's head, completely incapable of not trying to fix it even though his mind is going in about fifty different directions, right now.

Around the corner of the island, into Evan's space, and Evan melts just enough for Tommy to get his hands around Evan's hips. "Is everything okay?"

Tommy grimaces. "Not - not really, no. I've got to catch a flight in about six hours."

Evan goes stiff under his hands. "O-okay."

There's an art to fully grasping his tone, in these moments. He's - not an easy read, exactly, because his default seems to always be doing a terrible job of hiding whatever it is he's feeling, but that doesn't actually mean he's not masking the actual issue. It's confusion, mostly, maybe a little bit of hurt, a quiet sense of foreboding in his expression as he leans back to get a good look at Tommy's face, like he's searching for an answer for a question he doesn't know if he's allowed to ask.

Evan shifts impatiently, stormy expression clearing up. "Can - do you need to -" He makes a face Tommy knows is aimed at himself, a little recrimination for not being able to gather up the proper words in the proper order. He pulls in a deep breath. "Okay, so this is maybe too much to throw at you right now but those are kinda famous last words for me and I'm - will you tell me why so I'm not thinking up worst case scenarios here?"

Tommy slides in, fingers curling into the hem of Evan's shirt, gripping, tugging just enough that they both drift into one another. "It's my father." Brow furrowed, Evan nods, and waits, still rigid in the circle of Tommy's arms. And Tommy really does have to leave, soon, pack an overnight bag and try to get a couple hours of sleep before the slog to John Wayne, but he's a little concerned that leaving right now is going to send Evan into a tailspin. Thank God he'd decided to drive over first, tell him in person - he's missing a heap of context here but clearly a phone call would have been the wrong move. "He's - I have to..."

Evan knows the basics, bare minimum shit because Tommy hates acknowledging how much his father had fucked him up, how many years of therapy have been required to untangle the dad shaped knots in his brain.

"I don't really have all the details, yet, but my uncle called and I - I'm needed, apparently. I don't." Tommy has felt wrong-footed since the moment the name flashed across his phone screen, he doesn't talk to them, to any of them, and now his uncle has given him a vague 'Tom you need to come home, it's your pop' and his sister isn't answering her messages. Tommy takes a breath, realizes his hands have tightened into fists in the seams of Evan's shirt. "What do you mean famous last words?"

Evan is studying him carefully, elbows bowed behind him because he's got his palms curled around Tommy's fists, eyes shifting over Tommy's face, and Tommy knows he's seeing the shit Tommy likes to keep under lock and key. "It - it can wait. Tommy, do you need me to come with you?" Head tilted, gaze assessing, fingers shifting, soothing over the stretched tight skin of Tommy's knuckles.

It's too soon for that. He doesn't want Evan to see that part of him, the piece of the puzzle that Tommy has had to chip at, and shave and sand down to make fit, that ugly little part of his life he'd shed the day he'd set his house key on the dining room table and left for boot camp.

It's not too soon - he doesn't want Evan to ever see that.

He's also suddenly incredibly aware of how nice it would be to finally, finally have someone he knows is in his corner for whatever bullshit he's ten hours away from walking into. His grip loosens and Evan seizes the opportunity, awkwardly lacing his fingers through Tommy's. It's a weird angle, uncomfortable with the current positioning of their arms, but it feels a bit like a lifeline. "I can't ask you to do that."

"You're not. I'm offering."

There's a stubborn part of him that doesn't want to accept. He's kept his life out here so separate; even Sal, who'd kept all his other secrets for going on a decade, barely knows shit about his family. He has a good life, rich and fulfilling. Out here. He's got Evan, who'd do practically anything for his friends, his family. Tommy can't justify subjecting him to whatever garbage the Kinard's have going on three thousand miles across the country.

Evan tugs at his hands, shifting his weight enough to send Tommy stumbling half a step into him. Toe to toe, gazes catching again, because Evan is seeking him out, Tommy feels some of the weight lift off his shoulders.

"Okay."

It gives him the excuse of leaving as soon as possible, once he gets there, at the very least.

Evan nods. Whatever weird tension he'd been carrying ebbs from his shoulders and Tommy puts a pin in that - he's spiraling and upset but for a second Evan had been, too, and he needs to circle back to that when he can think straight.

He's got his phone out, free hand digging into Tommy's front pocket, and Tommy blinks, tries to think of something clever to say, something flirty and wry. They were supposed to go out tonight: dinner, maybe dancing, after, if Tommy could convince him. Then a three day stretch of matching days off - a drive up the coast, a little rental within walking distance of a beach, a seafood place that made a lobster roll almost as good as the ones up in Maine. He'd been contemplating whether or not it was too early to bring up Evan's lease.

Evan fishes Tommy's phone out and presses in his passcode without a second thought, and something eases in Tommy's chest. He trusts Evan. Has trusted him, consistently, unquestioningly - he'd given him his passcode on a whim when the screen went dark on it halfway through Evan adding his food to whatever they'd been in the middle of ordering in before Evan got derailed by a story about the anatomy of seahorses.

"Did you already book a flight?"

Tommy nods. Points out the Southwest icon he'd moved to his home screen for easy access.

He doesn't argue when Evan guides him around the island to one of the stools, there, fight and flight both losing out to freeze as Evan takes charge.

It's not their usual dynamic. Evan has been happy to set the pace, but once he takes his cues from him, Tommy's typically the one taking point. But Tommy feels unmoored, and it's nice, actually, to have Evan press a kiss to his temple, to pull up his flight information, to squeeze Tommy's shoulder as he books a second ticket on the credit card Tommy's really only let him use once or twice, happy to be seeing someone who will actually let him pay more than his fair share, who seems flattered that Tommy's always got his wallet out before Evan even thinks to reach for his.

Everything's a bit jumbled. He's halfway to Jersey already, maybe, pulled into the riptide and dashed against the rocks of Richard Kinard's bullshit, he doesn't even know why he's going, just that his uncle had told him he needed to come. He comes up for air feeling battered and bruised when Evan rubs a hand down his shoulder, over his arm, up again with harder pressure as his palm shifts down and over his spine.

Evan's face hovers close to his. "I'm just gonna call Bobby, and then we can pick up something to eat on the way over to your place." The upside to having something already planned is that Evan's already got a bag packed with everything he'll need to travel.

It sounds so simple, so effortless, and Tommy's throat feels tight when he swallows. He gets two fingers into Evan's belt loop before he can pull away, and Evan comes easily, stepping into the spread of Tommy's legs, forehead coming down the few inches to meet Tommy's. "You - thank you."

"Of course," Evan says, a little wry, an echo of Tommy's own favorite phrase whenever Evan gets a little caught up in the way Tommy keeps showing up for him. He gets it, now. It's been instinct, really, to be there when Evan asked, to try his damnedest to make it to the things he's promised to be there for - nothing particularly remarkable about it, in Tommy's mind, but Tommy's starting to see the larger picture. It's grounding, it's comforting, it is actually a little remarkable to be on the receiving end of it. It feels like devotion.

Tommy rolls his forehead, curls a hand up over Evan's shoulder, his neck, fingers catching in his hair, along the curl of his ear. When he blinks and meets Evan's gaze, there's something in his eyes that Tommy isn't sure either one of them is actually ready for, but then, they haven't really stumbled on their way through those things up to this point anyway. Blazed past them, maybe, but always with an understanding of what they mean while they waved at the mile marker blurring past them.

Evan squeezes at Tommy's knee. "I'm not going anywhere," he assures, and Tommy snorts.

"You're literally going to Jersey in, like, five and a half hours."

Evan huffs. "With you. I'm - you're ruining my moment, Tommy," he pouts, and if the both of them dissolve into a fit of giggles, no one has to know but them.

-----

Tommy hasn't been back here in eight years. It's been longer since he's talked to his family - he'd shown up fifteen minutes into his grandmother's funeral, slipped in to a pew at the back during mass and and skipped the wake before he found a bar and made a few bad decisions with a man who'd sat next to him four drinks in and smiled at him like the sun peeking through a billowing stormcap.

Evan presses a tentative hand to the small of Tommy's back and Tommy melts into it, pleased when the hand shifts to curl around his waist. He's apparently already rented a car, and Tommy can't quite hide the heavy sigh of gratitude at the admission - the getaway will be a lot smoother if they don't have to stand outside waiting for a ride.

He's seen Clipboard Buck in action before. The last time, he'd barely managed to get them somewhere private before he was on his knees to express his appreciation of Clipboard Buck. This is - not better, but different in a good way. It makes him feel tethered, reminds him that as crazy as it had been to accept an invitation to a wedding after a spectacular explosion of a first date, he'd been right to follow that spark he'd first felt on the tarmac while Evan Buckley shook his hand for about thirty seconds too long.

"I can help whoever's next," says a voice as Evan shuffles him along the rental line, and Tommy's gaze darts up, his posture sharpening.

Evelyn.

Christ, it's a day for reunions, Tommy guesses. They're next, actually, and Evan tilts his chin with narrowed eyes when Tommy sighs and moves to the counter.

For a second, Tommy's convinced she doesn't recognize him. She pops the gum in her mouth, bored gaze bouncing between them as Evan scrolls through his email for the confirmation number on his booking, and then her eyes go wide.

"Tom? Tom Kinard?"

Evan's eyes shift up. It's a lot more subtle than Tommy'd expected. So is the hand that squeezes at Tommy's hip in question.

Tommy curls his fingers around the hand, squeezes back. He's spent too many years on the other side of the closet door to go crawling back into the dark now.

"Hi Evie."

Tommy hasn't told this story, but he doubts Evan will be particularly surprised by it. He's heard about plenty of Tommy's other beards.

Her gaze shifts. From her spot behind the counter he doubts she's seeing much, but the anchor of Evan's arm around his waist has them sharing space, Tommy's shoulder pressed to Evan's chest, the two of them breathing the same air. Her brow ticks up behind her glasses. She's got a streak of grey along her temple, and the start of crows feet around her eyes.

Evelyn snaps her gum. "You missed the reunion," she notes, and then smiles. "Although I can't blame you if this is what you've got back at home. A large improvement on Jason Ledecky." She leans in. "He's got five kids and a truly tragic bald spot."

Evan's eyes gleam. Tommy realizes he's actually looking forward to telling this story, in the sanctuary of a rented car on the way to his uncles. Evelyn Carinni had been a godsend for a Tommy who'd shot up four inches and slimmed down over the summer after junior year -- she'd scooped him right up that first day of school when it became clear that a suddenly sharp jawline was all it took to garner the attention of the female population of Cliffside Park High, and the first time she'd whipped out her tits and seen the disinterested look on his face she'd made it her mission to make sure he made it through senior year undetected.

"You here about the will?"

Tommy pauses. "What will?"

Her eyeroll is exactly as disparaging as he remembers. "Christ, your family is a piece of work. According to Tina, who heard it from Daryl, Old Man Gio apparently had an updated will your dad tried to hide. There's been a whole lawsuit about getting it recognized."

"What the hell does that have to do with me?"

"Well, I imagine dear old granddad had a nice little end-of-life realization that the only descendant he had who didn't want any of his money was you, so as a last fuck you to all his ungrateful kids he left it all to you."

"There's no way any of that money hasn't been spent already." Not to mention he has no interest in some long drawn out court case where all his extended family has to admit they have no way to pay it back.

Evelyn hums. "A lot of it's been tied up for years. Plus there's the royalties his estate is still getting."

Tommy sighs. "My uncle made it seem like it was more serious than that."

"Is there anything more serious to them than who gets the lions share of daddy's money?" At Tommy's raised brow, she shakes her head. "Anyway, your pop might be looking at jail time, so there's always a possibility they're looking for preemptive bail money."

If he lets them, he'll tie up Evelyn for hours, standing here gossiping like teenagers. "We should have a reservation," Tommy tells her, before things get really off the rails, and they go through the motions of pulling up Evan's information. Evelyn pops her gum again.

"What a shame," she says, brow raised and eyes focused on Evan. "We promised you we had plenty of inventory in basic economy but it looks like those are all off the lot." Tommy watches Evan frown, eyes darting to the prices detailed behind her. Neither one of them is overly concerned about their savings account, at the moment, but Evan isn't fond of surprise price increases. He'd complained for a week the last time avocados had gone up thirty cents. "Looks like I'll just have to upgrade you free of charge, Mr. Buckley."

The clerk to her left shoots her an exasperated look and leaves it at that, but something happens in Evan's expression, the realization rolling over him that he's been included in some subterfuge. "Oh, well, if you have to," he says, but he's leaning his free arm against the counter now, posture open, happy to be included in this little bubble with someone who has loved and cared for Tommy. He knows the feeling -- knows how he'd had to take a deep breath at Chimney's bachelor party, when Eddie had glanced between them and implied that Evan inviting him to the karaoke bar was a date, remembers the way he'd had to dig his fingers into his thigh in the pocket of his pants to keep from being weird about how nice it was to laugh with Maddie Buckley-Han.

Evelyn chuckles, and smacks her gum, and the keys under her fingers clack away for a moment before she spins in her chair and marches off to grab something from the printer, and Evan hip checks Tommy with just enough force that Tommy sways, maybe a little overcome in the same way Tommy always is when Evan's friends, his family make it clear they like having Tommy around. He grins, and Tommy returns it, the edges of his smile bleeding into his cheeks.

Evelyn returns with contract for a sports car. "I waived the deposit fee," she intones. "For the inconvenience, sir."

Evan looks delighted as he signs off and Evelyn splits their copies. The sticky note affixed to Evan's copy has a phone number with a Jersey area code written on it, and she taps it.

"When you find out you're insanely rich and finally cut off the rest of your family completely, you two should take me out for coffee."

Evan isn't so caught up that he doesn't check in with Tommy first. It's not entirely necessary --he likes Evelyn, and Evan can clearly tell that -- but it's nice, all the same.

"How about a steak dinner," Tommy negotiates, and Evelyn's grin goes wide.

-----

As it turns out, Grandpa Gio was a petty little bastard with a penchant for dramatics, and according to a court of law his aunts and uncles (and father) owe him close to two million dollars, between them.

"I don't want it," Tommy confesses, laid out on the hotel bed that night, still too loose-limbed to move as Evan putters around in the bathroom, wetting a washcloth and brushing his teeth.

Evan looms over him a moment later, warm towel running over the ridges of Tommy's stomach, the rise of his pectorals. Christ, he'd shot off like a goddamn missile. Evan bites his lip to hide a grin when the towel catches on the underside of Tommy's chin.

"I'm assuming you're talking about the money," Evan says, folding the towel over itself to give him one last rubdown. "It seemed like you liked the sex."

Tommy shifts, tugging at Evan's wrist until he settles in beside Tommy. With the remains of his energy, he slings a leg over Evan's and rolls himself into the cradle of Evan's embrace. "That was never a question."

Evan maintains the silence for a grand total of thirty-seven seconds. It's longer than Tommy had expected. "So your family." Tommy hums, already tracing the edges of the tattoo on Evan's forearm. "Kind of dicks."

The snort of laughter settles into Evan's still-sweaty temples, and Tommy shifts to press his nose into the damp curls there. He'd been so hesitant to share this part of himself with Evan, but as always, Evan had forged on ahead like there was nothing in the world he'd rather do than provide the landing spot for Tommy to settle down his gear once the storm passed.

"Took me twenty years and a boatload of therapy to train that out of me. I'm still --." Tommy pauses, the usual self-deprecating comment stuck on the tip of his tongue, because for once, it doesn't feel like an effort to be nothing like them. He'd spent so long hiding in the shadow of the asshole his family had taught him how to be, and dragging himself out into the sunlight always felt like a struggle.

But it hadn't felt like an effort, really -- to hold Evan's hand under the judgemental gaze of ten cousins and four aunts and uncles, to stand tall and stick to the barest edges of polite while the room erupted into chaos the moment his father opened his mouth to defend himself, to excuse himself and tuck his arm over Evan's shoulder on the way out the door.

He can still remember the dazed way Evan had responded to that first kiss, while Tommy busied himself tugging the hem of his shirt back down, too nervous to look at him while he asked him out. The way he'd looked, when Tommy'd been brave enough to glance up, eyes a little glazed, mouth still open, and told him he was free.

At the time, Tommy'd been furiously convincing himself not to lean in for another kiss, fully aware he'd make himself late to work if he allowed himself another taste, but the memory had lingered the rest of the shift. In the days after, once he'd had a clearer picture of exactly how wide he'd just blown open Evan's world, he'd thought of it often.

I am free.

Tommy turns his face to meet Evan's gaze, nose dragging across his cheek, lips aching to find a home against Evan's again, but he catches his eyes first, slides a hand up over Evan's arm, shoulder, neck, until he can curl his fingers over his jaw, thumb tucking in to the little dimple as Evan grins at him. "Thank you for coming."

Evan sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, tongue darting out to wet the top one, a mischievous gleam in his eye, but he lets the dumb joke go, gaze shifting into something more serious as he drums his fingers along Tommy's bare hip. "Thanks for letting me," Evan murmurs back, and Tommy knows they need to talk about that sentiment in more detail, but for now he'd rather roll Evan on top of him and slide his tongue past the seam of Evan's lips.

Evan doesn't seem to have any complaints.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #teven fic

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elderwisp · 21 days ago

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◁ || ▷

Atlas: You’re coming, right?

Dan: Duh, I got people that want me there.

Atlas: I didn’t realize you were famous like that.

Dan: You would if you were around more.

Atlas: You're actually annoying!

Dan: Easy opening. Oye, I’m gonna try to invite Frances and Kai.

Atlas: So they can not show up again? Love that.

Dan: It was one time.

Atlas: A couple times actually. Look, do whatever you want, I’m not gonna hold my breath for them.

Dan: You’re such a brat.

Atlas: No me digas. Anyways gotta go, I need to work on this piece.

Dan: Fine, I’ll call you tomorrow.

Atlas: You don’t gotta do that.

Dan: It’s either that or I walk there since I don’t drive.

Atlas: PFFT. Loser.

Dan: Come mierda!

Atlas: Bye!

Ares: Need a ladder?

Atlas: Probably. Meh, I’ll stack a couple of boxes.

Ares: And break your back?

Atlas: Sounds fun.

Ares: Atlas right?

Atlas: Mhm.

Ares: Wait, you were at that party the other night. Dan wanted to beat the shit outta you.

Atlas: Sounds about right. Good thing she didn’t.

Ares: Damn that looks sick.

Atlas: Thanks, man.

Ares: How long does it usually take you to paint something like this?

Atlas: Too fucking long but it’s worth it.

Ares: I bet, I could never use my imagination to create this much less have the patience to finish a painting.

Atlas: I could have sworn you were in a band.

Ares: I am, why?

Atlas: Isn’t it similar? Especially when coming up with a song.

Ares: To an extent, you have chords that you sequence together into a melody. However, most of these chords have been played time and time again so it can feel like I’m playing from memory.

Atlas: Well a memory can be a reference. In art, everything feels like the residuals of something nostalgic. Maybe the melody reminds you of a happier moment. I just don’t think you should sell yourself short.

Ares: If that’s the case, what does this piece remind you of?

Atlas: A better time.

Ares: Are you alright now?

Atlas: As good as it gets. Anyways, do you know if the boba shop has a bathroom?

Ares: Yeah, but-

Atlas: I see why Dan likes you.

Ares: Likes me?

Atlas: Something like that. Catch you later.

#OH that’s not…#rEmInDs mE oFf A bEttER tiMe LIKE U DIDN’T CAUSE THE DOWNFALL URSELF 🤺#tessellate #tessellate: dan #tessellate: atlas #tessellate: ares #ts4 #simblr #show us your story #sims community

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sanrielle · 1 year ago

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Amazing fanart by Joanacchi! Posted here on tumblr with their blessing. Each one is based on a style that reflects a particular ancient culture's art history. (See below for descriptions provided by the artist!)

Store (buy these prints!) Twitter Instagram

Aang: Tibetan Thangka

"Thangkas are traditional Tibetan tapestries that have been used for religious and educational purposes since ancient times! The techniques applied can vary greatly, but they usually use silk or cotton fabrics to paint or embroider on. What you can depict in a Thangka is really versatile, and I wanted to represent things that make up Aang as a character."

Zuko and Azula: Japanese Ukiyo-e

"Ukiyo-e is a style that has been around Japan between the 17th and 19th century, and focused mainly in representing daily life, theater(kabuki), natural landscapes, and sometimes historical characters or legends!

Ukiyo-e was developed to be more of a fast and commercial type of art, so many drawings we see are actually woodblock prints, so the artist could do many copies of the same art!

I based my Zuko and Azula pieces on the work of Utagawa Kuniyoshi (1798-1861) one of the last ukiyo-e masters in Japan! He has a specific piece which featured a fire demon fighting a lord that fought back with lighting, and that really matched Zuko and Azula's main techniques!”

Toph: Chinese Portraiture from Ming and Qing Dynasties

"Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) was one of the longest in China! It was also a period where lots of artistic evolutions were happening, especially when it comes to use of colour! There was not a predilection for portraits during this time, but there are a lot of pieces depicting idealized women and goddesses from the standards of the time. For this portrait of Toph, I imagined something that maybe their parents commissioned, depicting a soft and delicate Toph which we know is not what she is about ♥️

Qing Dynasty (1644-1912) was the last Chinese Dynasty to reign before the Revolution. One of the most famous emperors of this period was Qianlong, and he really liked Western art! He commissioned a lot of portraits of his subordinates, and I chose a portrait of one of his bodyguards as a reference for the second Toph portrait, which I believe is much more like how she would want to be represented! The poem on top talks about the bodyguards' achievements during a specific war. I had no time to come up with a poem for Toph, so I just used the same one for the composition!”

Sokka and Katara: Inuit Lithograph

"For a long time, Inuit art expressed itself in utilitarian ways. The Nomadic lifestyle of early Inuit tribes played a huge part in that: most art pieces are carved in useful tools, clothing, or children's toys, small and easy to be transported, and depicted scenes and patterns representing their daily lives!

That changed a lot during the colonization. Since the settling of the Inuit tribes, many art pieces began to be created in order to be exported to foreigns, so they started to sculpt bigger and more decorative pieces.

Lithography, which is a type of printmaking, was introduced to Inuit people by James Houston, that learned the technique from the japanese. The art form was quickly embraced by the inuit, as part of the process is very similar to carving. Prints that are produced by inuit artists are still being sold today!

As lithography is not an old art style and it's still commercially relevant to the Inuit communities, since creating these in 2021 I have been donating regularly to the Inuit Art Foundation, not only all the money I get from selling some prints of these but a bit more, at least once a year. Hopefully, I can increase donations this year!”

#avatar the last airbender #atla #atla fanart #fanart #asian history #inuit history

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rendy-a · 10 months ago

Note

Could I request a self aware twst au with like the first years :D?

I want to thank all the people who interacted with that post earlier today. It gave me enough motivation to go out and finish this piece.

While trying to think up concepts for this work, it occured to me that all the first years (except Ortho) were in sports clubs. That means there is one event perfect for you to bond with your first year friends.

Ace kicks a pile of canvas laying in a heap at his feet, “This is ridiculous! What if something happens while we’re gone!” His mouth twists into an unpleasant grimace. He looks to his basketball club members for backup, but no one will meet his eye. So, he turns to where he knows he’ll find support. “Oi, Sebek!” The green haired fae is distractedly pounding away at a tent stake nearby but it is easy to see from his expression that his heart isn’t in it. “What happens if someone tries to kidnap the Player when we aren’t there to protect them? You know how famous they are!” Sebek stops hammering and slowly looks up, tears forming in his eyes.

“SILVER! SILVER!” he shouts to his clubmate, “What if I’m not there to protect the Player! Forget this event, we must return to the school with ALL HASTE!” He looks to his fellows for support but again, none of the senior students stop what they are doing. Ace, however, is fast to abandon his own camping site and join Sebek. “Right, right?” he eagerly urges Sebek on, “What does this even matter if our Player isn’t here to see it?”

“Stop it,” the sturdy voice of Jack growls, “It doesn’t pay to get worked up over it. This is in the story, so we have to do it. That’s just how it is.” Sebek stares at the wolf beastman silently, tears falling from his eyes. “Maybe we can tell them about it later!” Deuce tries to cheer his fellow freshman up, “I’m sure they’d like to hear about it. They always listened to my card stories before…well before it happened. I think they’d like to hear about this too!” At that Sebek seemed mightily cheered and returned to setting up his tent with gusto, muttering about what he’d tell the Player about later. Ace scoffs, sensing his defeat and returns bitterly to his own site.

Epel wanders over and observes Ace silently. “You finished?” Ace asks in surprise. “Yeah, Leona is a great leader and took charge of getting us set up right away!” Epel informs him, “I had time to put up my tent and help Ruggie set up one for Leona too!” Then he looks down and kicks Ace’s sad abandoned tent as well, “I just wish the Player was here to see it. I bet they’d have been really impressed with how fast I finished.” Ace frowns and complains, “But they aren’t here. They are back at school with the Arts Clubs.” This causes Epel to scowl deeply, “Dagnabit! I didn’t need a reminder of that! I can just picture those frou-frou artsy types trying to suck up to the Player. Trying to get them to talk different, eat different, just…” He doesn’t finish the thought but the way he grinds his teeth shows how he feels about the idea.

The sound of pounding tent stakes and shifting canvas is diminished when the booming voice of Coach Vargas booms out, “Listen up, young campers! Now, I know you don’t need any additional motivation to showcase your strength and fortitude here after I’ve done an AMAZING job setting up this EXCITING AND ENTERTAINING EVENT!” Here he pauses and casts a quick look over his shoulder before straightening up again. “But if you do!” Then he smiles a beaming smile and sets his hands on his hips. That’s when you pop out from behind him, “Hey guys! Guess who’s here to do their memory keeper duties!”

Ace jumps over his canvas pile in a rush to get to your side and stumbles over it. “Woah, calm down,” you admonish him cheerily, “I’ll be here all weekend.” Epel asks in an innocent sounding voice, “You will? You really will?” You pat the two boys on the shoulder and search out your other first year friends in the crowd. Sebek is sobbing quietly in front of his tent and Deuce is waving excitedly from the distant track club area. Jack gives you a small nod before turning back to his area as though he is unaffected by your appearance, but the cloud of dust kicked up by his wagging tail says otherwise.

You turn toward Vargas and look expectantly. He looks blankly back at you until you awkwardly say, “Go on.” He looks at you a moment before clearing his throat, “Ah yes, yes. Harumph! Anyway, tents are up! Get over here and listen up for your next task!” Then he looks at you as though seeking your approval to hand out the task. You shrug and then nod as though to say, ‘Sure, go for it.’ Vargas gives you a toothy smile and then proceeds to hand out a familiar sounding explanation about the tasks to be assigned to the clubs. You wave lightly before heading back to the cabin to get your own things sorted out. The eagerness of the students fades as fast as your departure.

“So…,” Deuce begins carefully, “We are going to try now? Right?” He looks at Ace for confirmation. Jack snorts behind him, “I was always going to try.” Then he makes a fist and puts on an eager smile, “I’m going to knock this challenge out so fast that the Player can’t help but notice me!” Deuce turns away from Ace to join Jack instead. The two Track Club members fire each other up over their plans to dominate the camp tasks and stand out to the Player. Deuce quickly becomes so distracted by this that he forgets Ace entirely. This is just the chance Ace has been waiting for to quietly slip away.

“So, Prefect,” Ace begins as he appears at your side. You yelp and drop your backpack, catching it before it hits the ground and damages your precious ghost camera. “Ace!” you shout, “What are you doing here? This isn’t in the event!” He looks at you quietly and you quickly backtrack, “I…I mean, shouldn’t you be with the Basketball Club doing…something?” Ace smiles, happy to have avoided an awkward situation. “Nah, I’m not going to mess around in the woods. It’s a team effort, so as long as those other guys do the grunt work, I’ll be fine.” You roll your eyes at his attitude. “Plus, why would I want to be anywhere but with my best buddy, eh Prefect?”

You consider this carefully before slyly narrowing your eyes and gesturing to your unbuilt tent. “Sure, thing, Pal. Why don’t you hang out and help me build my tent.” Ace grimaces, not wanting to do the work but mostly afraid you’ll pick up on his lack of tent-building expertise. The odd standoff is concluded when you hear Coach Vargus bellow, “Nonsense! That won’t do for either of you! I can hardly deprive the Prefect of the chance to enjoy this stimulating muscle-building activity and as for you Ace, well, you are just slacking off.” Ace starts to stammer as you just stand there cringing. Coach Vargus calmly approaches Ace and lifts him up by his collar. It reminds you of how you lift a misbehaving Grim by the scruff of his neck. You wave awkwardly at the departing Ace as he looks imploringly at you from the Coach’s grasp. ‘Oh well, you reap what you sow,’ you think.

A tiring amount of time later, you brush your hands off on your thighs and declare, “There, done!” Then you slowly head over to grab your pack holding the Ghost Camera, among other supplies. The sun is barely at its peak, but you are already sweating with exertion from putting up the tent. You wonder how your more athletic friends among the first-year students are handling it. You know they are more used to the effort, but you hope they are taking necessary precautions. Perhaps you’d just remind them and see if they need to borrow some sunscreen.

You know realize that sunscreen was the least of your safety concerns. You watch in disbelief as Sebek continues to scale a sheer cliff in search of a lantern blossom flower. The reaction of the nearby students was mixed. Silver seemed remarkably unconcerned as he spoke to Riddle nearby. Meanwhile, you and several NPC characters were more nervous. “He is going to fall, isn’t he?” you ask the nearby Scarabia A. He looks at you for a long moment and then shrugs his shoulders. You are not reassured at all.

You turn instead to Ignihyde C and gesture, “This game doesn’t have a mature rating, so he can’t die. Right? Right?” The surprised student looks at you with his mouth falling open before he stammers, “R.right.” Then he looks up at the precarious position of the green haired fae and mumbles, “But maybe you should cheer him on anyway.” You look more intently at the NPC and demand, “Do you think that would help?” He answers you in a fluster, “W..well, if my oshi…I mean friend…if my friend cheered me on, I think it would really help me do my best!”

Right. That is just the sort of thing friends do. “HEY SEBEK!” you shout. The fae somehow hears you shout and looks arrogantly over his shoulder at the spectators but when his eye catches your form, he shakes, and you fear he will tumble from the cliff. “HOLD ON SEBEK, YOU CAN DO IT! I BELIEVE IN YOU!” From even the great distance between you, the image of determination that crosses his expression can be seen. He sets off with a renewed vigor, making daring transitions and finding ways to make speedy progress. With several movements that make you gasp and hold your breath; he reaches the lantern blossom and plucks it from the ground.

Much faster than the ascent, Sebek’s return to the ground was accomplished quite shortly. He was still a considerable distance up when he leaps from the cliff edge to race to your side and show off his prize. He eagerly holds out the glowing lantern blossom for you to view. “Its so pretty,” you comment politely, “I wish I had one.” He gasps and grabs hold of your hand, forcing the poor battered flower into it. “THEN YOU MUST HAVE THIS ONE!” You give him a shocked look, “No really, that is unnecessary. I’ll get one some other day.” He smiles at you smugly, “No need Prefect. Any time you need a lantern blossom, I will fetch one for you.” You guiltily hold out the flower to one student after another, but no member of the Horseback Riding Club will take it from you. “Prefect,” Riddle finally says in a commanding voice, “Its rude to return a gift. We are more than capable of retrieving another lantern blossom.” Sebek and Silver nod in agreement, backing up the Dorm Leader. You think it’s time to go before you cause this club any more trouble. You make your excuses and dash off to the lake.

As you part a pair of branches and emerge from the forest at the lake’s edge, you catch sight of some members of the Spelldrive Club nearby. Ruggie seems to be fishing up a storm while your first-year friend Epel watches from nearby with his own pole. “See,” Ruggie tells his underclassman, “That’s how its done. Now in return for that free lesson, how about you show me what you learned by catching enough fish for the rest of the club! Shishishi!” You roll your eyes at the obvious attempt to foist the work off onto Epel but are surprised with your friend shouts “YES SIR!” with enthusiasm. You catch Ruggie’s eye and give him a quiet tsk tsk which only earns you a mischievous wink before the hyena beastman set’s off toward camp.

You slowly saunter over to Epel, who is fully engaged in his fishing. “So, got a plan?” you asked over his shoulder. “Eh!?” he gasps and drops his pole, “Player! I..I mean Prefect! It’s you! Ya’ had me surprised outta my skin there!” You give him an apologetic smile. Epel stoops down to retrieve his pole and shyly replies, “My plan is just to catch the fish. I’m not going to give up until I’ve caught at least a dozen!” Then he holds up his arm and bends it at the elbow, giving you a little flex to show off his determination. You hold in a laugh, “Well, if you are that fired up, why stop at only one dozen?”

Epel’s eyes go wide for a moment and then he gets a maniacal grin. “Yeah! You’re right! I’m going to catch you at least two dozen fish! Or maybe three or four!” You know Epel is not the type to break his word, so you quickly interrupt to calm down his ambitions, “One dozen is enough! I was just joking.” You wave your hands toward the ground as though to say, let’s lower our expectations. Epel frowns and mutters under his breath, “That isn’t going to impress anyone.” Then he looks at you determined, “Just wait and see! I’ll catch plenty of fish so don’t go eat’n with any other club! When tha fish are in tha bag, I’ll make ya Gram’s special fish stew!”

As Epel gets to work, casting his line and reeling in the lure, you sit beside him on a rock. When the time seems right, you snap a picture of him eagerly lifting a small fish from the lake on his line. “There you go! One down!” you say as you transfer the ghost camera to your elbow and give him a small clap of encouragement. He preens a short second before frowning down at the small fish. “Tha’ next ‘un will be twice as big!” he shouts in determination before casting his line again.

True to his prediction, soon Epel gets a tremendous tug on his pole. You both shout and leap to your feet at the strength of the fish that appears to be on the line. “WOAH!” Epel shouts. You lean over the edge of the lake, trying to see the monster fish Epel has snagged. Epel too seems interested in his opponent and plans one foot firmly while leaning forward to stare intently where his line entered the lake. With a sudden flash, a scaled hand emerges from the lake to grab the tip of Epel’s rod and tugs Epel, pole and all, into the lake. You quickly slide back as far more of Floyd emerges from the lake. He gives you a toothy smile before his trademark laugh emerges and he returns to the lake. Epel does not immediately surface, and you are concerned for a moment before you spot him further down the shore. Though he has concealed himself behind a log, you can tell his ears are flushed with embarrassment. You kindly decide to give him his space.

Halfway to camp, your stomach begins to growl. You thought sadly about Gran’s special fish stew, now beyond your reach. You hoped that you’d manage to sweet talk some fish off someone. They were your friends, so someone is bound to share, right?

The size of Deuce’s eyes when you asked him sweetly if he’d share his food with you rivaled that of the empty plate you held out to him. “Please?” you finish your plea for lunch. Deuce flushes and quickly removes his pack from his shoulder, pulling out a fairly large fish. “No problem, Prefect, I’ve got enough for two here!” You make a little gesture to celebrate your victory and compliment him, “Yeah! Great job catching such a big fish. It looks so huge, I bet its even enough for three people!” Immediately Deuce denies this, “NO! NO, IT’S NOT!” When you pull back in surprise, Deuce continues in a softer voice, “I…I mean this one is just perfect for two. It…its just meant for us. To share. Together.”

You hold up your hands and agree, “Sure, sure. Just you and me. I get you.” Deuce seems so very pleased by your response that you decide to just let his strange response slide. Plus, you need him to cook that fish. “So…what are you making? You know, just for us to share?” you ask as you saddle up to his side? Deuce looks back and forth between you and the fish, “I sure know how to cook this. Yup, I really do.” Your mouth falls into a little O and then you glare at him suspiciously, “Deuce, do you know how to cook fish?” He doesn’t meet your eye but assures you that Trey taught him some recipes. You still have your suspicious but figure if it was a Trey recipe, it would be alright.

“So, what do we do?” you ask Deuce. He looks at you with a dreamy expression, “We? You’re going to cook with me?” You shrug your shoulders, “I mean yeah, that’s how Trey’s recipes are, right?” Then you lean in close and whisper, “Like…Like in the game when we made that chestnut tart together. Right?” Deuce quickly agrees, “Right! Together! You and me! Just…you and me… Ahem!” He finishes with a cough and then, to your relief, sends you to the forest to collect some herbs.

You had a handful of samples and a general area to search for more. Apparently, Jack had scented some out while setting up camp and taken cuttings so his clubmates could retrieve more later. You smiled at the foresight of the first-year student. You weren’t sure exactly what Deuce needed, so you gathered a few handfuls of each type. You walk back to the camp and set your bounty on the table next to the fish Deuce has prepared. It looks like he’s used the time you were away to fillet the fish and make a simple dough. Seeing the dough gives you confidence that this really is a Trey recipe.

“So, what now?” you ask him. “Chop up the herbs and mix them into a paste with water,” Deuce directs. “Sure,” you say while gesturing to the pile, “but which ones?” Deuce pauses and looks at the large pile of greens you have sitting there. “Oh…um…All of them!” Now your doubts are back. “Are you sure about that?” you ask him carefully. “Yeah!” Deuce replies confidently, “Just like Trey says, the more the merrier!” You carefully take two sprigs of herbs and chop them up and then, while Deuce is preoccupied with the dough, give them a taste. Honestly, the combination of the two isn’t bad. ‘Well,’ you think, ‘what to I know about cooking in a magical world anyway?’ So, you chop the entire pile of greens and mix it all into a thick paste. Deuce combines your herb paste with the fish and puts it into a small pie shell he has formed with the dough. Then, you pack the ‘pie’ into the hot rocks of the fire to roast.

While the pie bakes, you sit side by side on a log and chat about normal things. Or maybe it was more like you chatted and Deuce listened. You didn’t mind, he was good company even if he seemed preoccupied. You were telling him about Grim’s latest antics when you felt something on your hand. You give a small yelp and tug your hand into your lap. “Ah!” you examine your hand as you brush it off, “Was that a bug?” Deuce, who you suddenly realize had gotten far closer to you than you’d noticed, nervously remarked, “Oh yeah, that…was probably it. Ha ha.” Finally, you ask, “Are you cold? I bet we could find you a seat closer to the fire if you are. You can be as cozy as our pie.” Deuce seems embarrassed for a moment before suddenly becoming alarmed, “THE PIE!” He jumps up and fishes the pie from the fire.

He brings it to you nervously, “I think it is fine…” The pie has a small amount of char around the edge that was directly in the fire. If it hadn’t been made by your good friend, you’d probably have refused it but, since it was made by Deuce, you don’t have the heart to refuse. “Oh yeah, looks fine. I guess…lets try it?” you say trying to convince both yourself and Deuce of the pie’s editability. Deuce lets out a happy sigh and breaks the pie in half, handing you the slice with fewer burnt edges. He makes no move to eat the pie himself but seems to hold his breath, waiting for you to try it. “Well, here it goes?” you say in a worried tone. You take a bite; it’s terrible. You force your mouth into a wide smile, “mmm…” you mutter for him in pity. You decide to use the same method for the pie as you used the last time you were forced to eat Lilia’s cooking. You cram the pie down in three huge bites, trying to finish it off while tasting it as little as possible.

For a moment, Deuce seems greatly pleased with the gusto in which you eat before the look of alarm sets on his face and he tilts his head to the side. Or maybe he is tilting his whole body? Oh, no. It’s you that is falling. Then the blackness takes you as Deuce’s frightened shouts fade out, “HELP, I think…I’ve poisoned…the player…”

You wake up groggy. If that was all, you’d have considered yourself lucky, but it also appears you’ve been tied to a tree. You are confused for a moment until you recall the storyline of the Camp Vargus event. Right, Coach is probably out tormenting students right now while anyone captured is tied up. Great, just great. You look up when you hear a long howl echoing through the forest. ‘Is that Jack?’ you think to yourself. If Jack is already in his wolf form, then this camp is nearly over. You sigh and lean back into the tree, waiting for someone to come along and release you.

It isn’t longer than an hour before a very tired but eager Jack arrives to untie you. “Guess you are the hero of the day, huh?” you jibe at him. He flushes as he rubs the back of his head, “Oh, you heard about that.” He tries to pretend indifference but moments later he is asking for more details, “So what did you hear?” Well, this is a challenge to answer since you hadn’t actually heard anything about it. You just remembered it from when it was a game plot. “Well…didn’t Floyd change into his mer form? That was probably cool to see.”

A look of incredulousness passes over his face, “Yeah well, other guys probably looked cool too.” You nod knowingly, “Yeah, I heard you got to Sebek use his training to lure the monster into the bog. Who knew there would be a chance for him to show off his skills out here.” Jack huffs, “Yeah but he wasn’t the only one using his skills out there.” Now you smile, feeling a bit mischievous yourself, “Oh, for sure. I mean what would we have done without our MVP from Savanahclaw.” Jack lets out a relieved sigh and smiles. “Yes, Ruggie sure did pull though. I don’t normally approve of his sneaky habits, but you have to admit he really came through today.”

Jack’s eyes widen and he stands there in a silent shock. “Well, let’s get going. Are you hungry? I could sure go for something right about now.” Then you dust off your knees and start heading toward camp. After a moment, you decide you’ve tortured him enough and pause, waiving your hand to signal him to join you. When he reaches your side, you give his uniform sleeve a tug. He bends down and you use this opportunity to give him a pat on the head and then rub his soft ears. “You did good, Jack,” you praise him softly. Then you thread your arm through his own and tug him along to camp. “Now, let’s go get some grub. Just don’t take anything Deuce gives you, ok?” Jack smiles and follows you along, tail wagging all the way.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #self aware au #ace trappola #yandere ace trappola #yandere deuce spade #deuce spade #yandere epel felmier #epel felmier #sekek zigvolt #yandere sebek zigvolt #twst first years #yandere first years #tw: yandere

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amymbona · 3 months ago

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amy after seeing that vid from mike’s tumblr i can’t stop thinking about early 2010’s tumblr moot art :’( he follows you one day and you don’t think much of it but then all of a sudden he’s liking every single one of your posts and commenting stuff like “ ❤️ this!” under your writing and when you go to check his blog you’re so confused cause it’s all about his friends and tennis and video blogs and motivational quotes but you follow him back anyway cause despite the graininess he looked really cute in his videos!! not even a few minutes later he’s sending you a dm saying “thank you for the follow back :)” and you start talking regularly and!! if you’re a smut writer it eventually gets brought up in the convo and you find out there’s a lot that lies under art’s soft innocent exterior 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Frnchgirls you delivered once again 😫😫😫

Tumblr user donaldsonart1, he's so adorable :( liking and reblogging everyone's posts because he wants to see the people grow more and more famous, to have their blogs be really loved and appreciated. You question how did he really make it to the fanfiction side of tumblr, especially your own blog, because you mainly write smut about Remus Lupin and Sirius Black. Later, you discover that he really fucking loves Harry Potter.

He looks young too, in his early 20s, you presume, and it's easy to notice he's into tennis. His blog is simple, not too aesthetically decorated, and his bio just says "tennis is love, tennis is life :)" and his profile picture is a slightly blurry photo of him in front of some big ciry skyscraper. Simple but really cute.

Donaldsonart1 uses an awful amount of emoticons as well, his favourite being :) >.< and :3 which makes you think that sometimes you're texting a sixteen year old girl. He's really sweet and sends you pictures of Wolfstar fan arts. That's when you begin noticing certain cracks in his innocent attitude, and little hint of something you people know as nsfw. It starts simply with Art letting you know about his attraction towards certain people, the most mentioned ones being Roger Federer and Hilary Duff.

donaldsonart1: did you see what i reblogged?

donaldsonart1: about the movie cinderella

donaldsonart1: i really like the actress :) she's very pretty

And then a few days later, he really fucking lets loose.

donaldsonart1: i watched a match with roger federer yesterday. he's really good

donaldsonart1: idk why they're dressing him in these tight shirts

donaldsonart1: i wrote a smut about him btw, would you like to see?

donaldsonart1: :)

You read it, of course. Staring at your phone screen with an open mouth, you have a hard fucking time closing it because this is by far the most violently pornographic piece of art that you have ever read. Something so incredibly filthy that you almost doubt someone so angelic looking has actually written. These are not the words of the baby faced guy who's been living in your DMs for the past few weeks.

#pookies army <3 #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #social media!au #ask

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seven-meds · 3 months ago

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Hi! Your meat works are very interesting. Is there a reason behind the meat presented in the form of pixels or it's a censure due to tumblr rules? I was very curious to know if there's any artistic choice behind it :) you don't have to answer this if you don't want to, of course! Either way, those works are very interesting visually speaking :) your art is incredible! 🖤 lots of kudos

Thank you! I don't think any platform has a rule against animal corpses… hunting, skinning, and butchering photos are easy to find most anywhere. Initially I was trying to solve the problem of "I hate rendering more than anything else in the world" and pixelating the painting makes it so I only have to block the colors out enough for the figure to be readable when abstracted. This is the previous image unblurred as an example:

As I've honed in through doing more pieces I've come to like how much they evoke censored crime scene photos and graphic news imagery. Censoring graphic imagery places us in a very detached but active role, we're primed to fill in the blanks with our imagination. Humans tend to be fascinated by the grotesque but most of us have an innate aversion to viewing a destroyed or lifeless body. The idea that retreating into one's mind and constructing a fantasy around traumatic imagery is considered more respectful than viewing that event outright is interesting to me. At the very least I would say it's more respectful to oneself.

I've been someone who's habitually sought out photos and videos of traumatic events. In case you're wondering if I had some sort of moral epiphany, there was no moment at which I consciously decided to no longer do this, I just slowly reached a point where I couldn't handle it anymore. In all the hundreds of photos and videos I've consumed the ones that have truly remained with me are not those where an injury or corpse was the main focus, it is those where the environment around it was particularly prevalent. The narrative I'm able to construct around the moments before the event is more enduring than the depiction of the event itself. And, if you consider the grim or disturbing images that are the most famous, the most widely shared, I think this is very common. By having the background in focus and the corpse of the animal obscured hopefully that desire to build a story is there for the viewer more so than if they were looking at a traditionally rendered painting.

#From You #Art #Meat

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i-heart-hxh · 7 months ago

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During the shinju scene,meleoron mentions theres something killua cant tell him, what is it that killua couldnt tell him?

from what i seen,shinjuu isnt always romantic,was it he couldnt tell meleoron he was going to die w gon because of his romantic feelings

The line

meleoron:‘if you joking,whyd u have that incredibly sad look on ur face(talking about when he was observing killua with gon)’ ‘you cant tell me,so i wont ask’ or in different translations its ‘cant you tell me?’ But in the original japanese its about being unable to tell somebody something

Hello!

So, I decided to just post (most of) these two pages because I think seeing the art and layout of the actual pages helps with understanding exactly what's going on and also analyzing it. I also went and looked at the pages in Japanese just to see if anything stood out. Aside from the famous shinjuu line, the translation seems fine.

Just to summarize and be clear before I launch into further analysis: In this scene, Killua says (with a rather dark expression) that the worst case scenario is he and Gon die together in a lovers suicide. Killua sees that Meleoron is rather vexed/taken aback/discouraged by this response and doesn't know what to say, so then Killua immediately claims he's just kidding and that they'll be okay after all, and he knows how to snap Gon out of it.

Meleoron then internally doubts that Killua is kidding about this, because he was there when Gon said the "It has nothing to do with you," (essentially) line that pushed Killua away, and he saw how heartbroken Killua looked by that. He then decides it's not worth asking because Killua clearly doesn't want to be honest about his feelings, he can't or won't express what he's going through, so he backs off.

I'm glad you brought this up because it's a piece of the whole shinjuu scene that people don't talk about as much, but this whole exchange and Togashi bothering to show Meleoron's reaction to it in the first place says a lot about the importance of the scene. If Meleoron didn't pause and connect this to Killua's earlier heartbroken moment (and notice how it takes up literally half of the page--it's important!), it would be easy to read on past it without thinking about it more deeply.

In other words, this further exchange with Meleoron is emphasis. It's there so the readers don't simply gloss over what Killua said about the shinjuu, and so the readers understand that he means it, that no matter what he says to the contrary, Killua is in fact serious about this possibility. It's there to slow things down enough so the readers can reflect on and ask their own questions about the situation.

I'm sure this is why Togashi bothered to put Meleoron in the scene with Gon pushing Killua away in the first place--there was no other reason for him to be there, other than being an observer of this moment and standing in to ask these questions.

Meleoron--an outside observer without as much context for Gon and Killua's relationship as the rest of us--wonders what's going on here, why Killua looked utterly destroyed by a few simple words. But because he saw Killua's immediate urge to lie and say it's a joke when he hesitated, he knows Killua won't open up to him about exactly what's going on, why Killua was so devastated by what Gon said to him and why Killua intends to do a teen lovers suicide with his best friend if all goes badly. Meleoron is definitely pointing out (in his view, anyway) that there are feelings behind this that Killua is unable and unwilling to talk about. Is he implying they're romantic feelings? I mean...

This happens so much in Chimera Ant arc around Killua's feelings. Togashi leaves it open-ended, doesn't spell it out blatantly, but it seems like the question is being asked over and over again--what exactly are the nature of Killua's feelings for Gon, anyway? And there keep being these moments where the concept of romantic love is conjured in some form in connection with or around this unspoken question being asked, like multiple instances in the Palm subplot I've talked about a bunch of times now. (Linking to that post in particular because it links to a lot of other Palm subplot related posts.)

Even the way Killua asks if Gon considers him a friend or a comrade, asking What are we? basically is essentially a shoujo trope--and especially how it was presented, very dramatic with a lot of focus and emphasis on Killua's internal turmoil around asking the question.

There are just so many times in this arc where emphasis gets placed on a question of, What are your feelings for Gon anyway, Killua? in an indirect way, including this moment with Meleoron. It's repeated so many times and there are so many instances where there's some subtext around or even direct mention of romantic love hovering around these questions, it's basically daring the audience to answer.

It's true that shinjuu can be non-romantic in some cases, however the word choice is meaningful. Togashi knows what the implications of it are, especially in a literary sense. He could have chosen other ways to phrase this, he could have opted not to use this word in particular. If it was presented completely in isolation from any other romantic subtext, there would be more of an argument to be had for it just being included in a platonic sense, but with how much repeated romantic subtext there is with Gon and Killua's relationship to begin with...I think the word choice is very intentional.

I hope that answers your question!

#hunter x hunter #hxh #killugon #gonkillu #gon #killua #meleoron #meta #my posts #asks #anonymous #long post #chimera ant arc #lovers suicide meta

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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 1 year ago

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Denouement (Aegon II Targaryen x Reader)

Art by the lovely and talented: @barbiedragon be sure to take a look at the moodboard at then end, too!

When the daughter of Lord Swann is sent to King’s Landing to find a match to improve her family’s damaged reputation, Prince Aegon is eager to learn whether she takes after her famous cousin, the Black Swann of Lys. But he learns more than he ever wanted to - about her, and himself.

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x House Swann!Reader

Warnings: attempted sexual assault, attempted rape/non-con, Aegon swears a bunch

This is my submission for the @hotd-bigbang ! Shout out to everyone who participated, especially @ewanmitchellcrumbs for being an amazing organizer!

Denouement

Aegon was sprawled across his bed, entirely unclothed and clutching a mostly empty bottle of wine. How much of the wine he had drunk, and how much of it had sloshed down his chin and chest to dampen the sheets below him, he neither knew nor cared.

He had planned to go back to Fleabottom and find a cheap cunt or two to relieve him of his frustrations. Yet every time he tried to get off the bed, it was like some invisible force pushed him back down into the mattress. He simply could not get up if he tried – and he did try.

Well, he tried once.

But it was hot, and the wine was very good. Besides, there were plenty of women in the Red Keep for him to choose from, even though they wouldn’t be quite as easy as the whores. He decided that after a short nap, he’d go find one. Or perhaps one would come to him – it was about the time of day when a maid or two would come to replace his bedding, after all.

He was just about to doze off into a dream of forever burying himself in some woman’s soft, enormous breasts when trumpets blared from the courtyard below, startling him so much that his poor wine bottle tumbled to the floor and broke apart.

“Oh, fuck off!” he shouted to no one in particular.

The blaring noise had set his ears ringing and his head aching, making it entirely impossible for him to now find sleep. He slung his arm over his eyes and let out a protracted groan of extreme displeasure. What was supposed to be a relaxing day of drinking and fucking was now thoroughly ruined.

More noise began to float up to his window from the courtyard. Infuriated and somewhat vengeful, Aegon crawled across the bed and draped himself over its edge to grab another bottle of wine – this one empty, but intact. He had it raised behind his head, ready to send it through the window when he finally heard what the voice in the courtyard was saying.

The Lord Matthos Swann, and his daughter, Lady Swann.

Swann… Aegon knew that name somehow. It prickled something in his memory that he was, at this moment, too drunk to reach. But the prickling was enough to bother him, enough to make him drop his bottle and slump back into his sheets, close his eyes, and try to sort through the chaotic workings of his mind.

He did not know why this particular piece of information was so important for him to remember, but it felt important nevertheless. So much so that when two little maids came to change his bedding, Aegon shouted at them to leave rather than attempt to bring one of them into his bed.

Helaena came and went, reminding him that there was to be a welcome feast for the noble houses that were just arriving in the capital, and he was expected to attend. He rolled over and clamped his pillow around his head, and she soon left.

It was not until the sun had nearly set and the wine had nearly faded from his blood that Aegon howled with triumph as he sat bolt upright and threw his pillow in the air in glee.

“Johanna Swann!” he exclaimed as he fell onto his back, a wide grin on his face as he stared at his ceiling, remembering the bawdy tales he’d heard of the Black Swan of Lys.

He had only been a babe when Lady Johanna was kidnapped by pirates of the triarchy. They’d asked for a ransom from her uncle, but he refused, and she was then sold as a courtesan in the most infamously libidinous city in the world. Since then, she had become the most powerful person in the city, all thanks to her apparently magical cunt. Every so often, her latest doings would appear in the gossip of the Red Keep.

Oh, how some of those tales titillated Aegon when he was young. He had even encountered a small portrait of Johanna, hung in a place of honor at one of his former favorite brothels as if she were a goddess.

But it couldn’t be Johanna herself, he realized with no small amount of disappointment. She would have been announced on her own, not as merely the daughter of Lord Swann.

Who was it, then? A cousin, a sister, or maybe some distant relation brought into the family to try and repair their reputation?

Whoever it was, Aegon instantly decided that he not only needed to meet her, but he would have to sample her as well, to determine whether Johanna’s prowess was her achievement alone, or if it was a skill this new Lady Swann would possess, too.

When Aegon arrived in the Great Hall, his hair was still visibly damp from dunking his head into the cold water of his washbasin in a hasty attempt to make himself at least somewhat presentable. The formal introductions had already finished, and the meal was halfway over. He received a quiet scolding from his mother as he slipped into his seat, but she seemed relieved that he’d shown up at all, so it could have been much worse.

His father, as always, ignored him entirely. Not even a look of greeting to his firstborn son.

As soon as he sat, Helaena turned to him and held out a stuffed beetle that she’d snuck into the Great Hall. It must have been a new one, for he had not seen it before. It had black and white stripes that extended across its body from tail to antennae, save for one white patch with only a circle of black in it. With its neat appearance and long antennae, it was very nearly elegant – for a bug.

“Very pretty, Hel,” he whispered, giving her the best smile he could when he was looking at an insect just before eating.

Helaena smiled back, pride shining in her eyes. Then her face went blank, and her hands tremored slightly. She’d had episodes like this before, even when she was too young to speak. It was during these that she rambled nonsensical words that Aegon could never understand.

“Black and white, death and life, evil and good,” she whispered. “Neither triumph. All fades to gray.”

Aegon cringed slightly, usually her ramblings weren’t so negative. They usually made him feel uncomfortable, but something about these particular words greatly disturbed him. He shivered, as if a cold wind brushed against the back of his neck. He gave Helaena a weak smile and turned to his food.

It took him a while – and half a chicken, two rolls of bread slathered with butter, and a pile of vegetables that he only ate so his mother wouldn’t scold him – to brush off the last of his unsettlement and finally look across the gathered nobles scattered at the four great tables that had been set in the Great Hall.

Unfortunately, he looked up just as servants were moving those tables to make room for a dance floor, and what was a smattering of bright colors soon became a whirling, twirling mass of more colors than Aegon could count or name. Reds, blues, greens, oranges, obnoxiously bright yellows, and even a few pinks and purples all swirling together in an ostentatious and nauseating display.

However, it made it easier for Aegon to spot his target for the night. For though she did wear a gown to match the heraldry of her house, the Swann colors were simply black and white.

Aegon’s wine-blurred vision cleared as he finally set eyes on her.

This young Lady Swann was beautiful.

And yet she bore little resemblance to the depiction of the Black Swan that he’d seen in the brothel. Her coloring was different, her features softer, and her eyes – demurely downcast – far kinder.

Despite her beauty, there was not a single hint of a seductress in her.

Her gown proved as much. It was finely made and surely expensive, but there far too much of it – a neckline more prudish than even his mother’s, long voluminous sleeves that hid her hands, and a puffy mountain of skirts that left her figure a mystery.

One that Aegon was not quite sure was worth solving.

Still, his curiosity was piqued. At least enough to keep an eye on her while he perused what were certainly easier options.

Nearly every detail he learned about her was a disappointment. She was very intelligent. She was pious. She was obedient – although that was something he could turn into an asset. Even her sobriquet, ‘The White Swan,’ was dull. ‘The Black Swan’ was far more intriguing. A white swan was just an ordinary bird.

She was nothing like her more famous cousin. Or sister. He still hadn’t figured that out.

What was the point of coming here, then? Aegon supposed he at least looked nice and clean for when he inevitably snuck out to the Street of Silk. The girls were always more pleasant when he was clean.

“You appear unusually deep in thought, brother.”

Indeed, he had been so busy deciding where on the Street he wanted to go tonight that he didn’t see Aemond approaching until he spoke.

Aegon scowled and took a long drink from his wine to give himself time to concoct an answer. “Just observing the new arrivals.”

“Observing them for what purpose, exactly?” Aemond asked, looking briefly at Helaena, who was still sitting in her chair and not-so subtly playing with whatever insect she had brought with her.

Aegon narrowed his eyes as he understood the implication behind that glance. Why must Aemond always harp on about this if Helaena herself didn’t give a shit?

“I may be a married man, but that does not mean I cannot appreciate beauty when I see it.”

“If only you stopped at mere appreciation.”

“At least I am able to comprehend the beauty of a woman, and possess the skills to do something about it,” Aegon snapped back. A low blow, perhaps, not that he cared all that much if he hurt Aemond’s feelings. If he even had them.

But Aemond did not snap back, nor did he retreat to sulk on his own or to dote on Helaena. He sighed and turned back to the crowd. “Many young ladies arrived today. Is there one in particular who has caught your eye?”

Aegon’s brows rose in surprise. Not since their trip to the Steet of Silk on Aemond’s thirteenth nameday had he asked his elder brother about women. Or even really mentioned one – at least, not one that they weren’t related to. He even once said that he never wanted to see another person naked ever again.

“And why do you care, Aemond?” Aegon noted the glimmer of resigned frustration on his brother’s face and broke into a wide smile. “Oh! Have mother and Otto finally declared that you must find a bride?”

“Hmm.”

“Aha! That means yes!” Aegon exclaimed. Perhaps coming here would not be a waste, if he had the opportunity to watch Aemond attempt to flirt with various ladies. “Did you actually think you could remain unmarried forever?”

Aemond sighed. “One can hope. Will you please answer my question now?”

Looking back at the dancing crowd, Aegon considered the question. There was a lovely brunette in a shiny green dress. A stunning blonde in red. A girl with piercing blue eyes wearing pink. And one young lady with the most magnificent breasts he’d ever seen threatening to spill from her yellow dress at any moment.

Yet even with all the delicious treats in front of him, his eyes kept going back to the girl in black and white standing to the side of the dancefloor, smiling at the dancers, but never joined. She had a very soft smile, her pretty lips curving ever so gently.

He knew she would never let him taste those lips.

But that didn’t mean she had to go to waste. A lovely, intelligent, pious girl who likely had as little interest in the art of the bed as Aemond might make a perfect pair. Though when Aegon turned back to his brother and opened his mouth, he could not say it.

Aemond raised a brow expectantly.

“Well, her, obviously!” Aegon pointed to the girl in pink with the blue eyes, then tapped Aemond’s eyepatch. “You’d match.”

There was a tense silence between them, Aemond scowling down at Aegon for a long moment before turning and stalking off without another word.

Aegon laughed to himself before turning back to Lady Swann across the Great Hall. There were objectively more beautiful women who would likely leap at the chance to gain his favor by joining him in his bed. Many of them in the very room where he stood. Yet he was most drawn to her.

Why had she captivated him so?

More importantly, how could he get rid of this feeling?

He forced himself to turn away, pour more wine in his goblet, and down the entire thing. The alcohol helped clear his mind as it settled in his stomach. Fully back in his comfortably intoxicated glaze, he was finally able to think.

The answer was simple: he just needed to take her once, confirm that there was truly no reason for this strange, involuntary obsession. Then he would move on to the next conquest – most likely that girl in yellow with the massive breasts.

Yes, it was that simple. It had to be.

Lady Swann excused herself from the feast early, leaving alongside those guests whose hair had long since gone gray. Her father only allowed it because she claimed the music and bright colors of the ballroom was beginning to hurt her head. In truth, she had simply tired of it all.

Crowds of such size had always overwhelmed her. Not for ordinary shyness, she quite enjoyed the company of others. That ended the moment she found out that the quick glances people gave her were not for the desire to know her, but for their curiosity about her – if she had been influenced in any way by her infamous cousin.

It did not matter that she had been only an infant when Johanna was captured and had had no contact with her since. Every so often, Johanna would send her father a letter, which was either ignored or thrown in the fire.

As a child, Lady Swann often wished that she knew her cousin. That Johanna hadn’t been kidnapped. That her father had paid her ransom. That some gallant knight had travelled to Lys to rescue her. That she herself had not grown up as the only child in Stonehelm.

No god granted her wishes. Nor the stars, nor the sun or moon, not even the Weirwood tree she had once visited at some keep her father took her to which she no longer remembered the location or name of.

So, she was alone. Sometimes, her father’s visitors would bring their own children, and she would ask them as many questions as she could before they left. She wanted to know everything about them – where they lived, what they did for fun, and what they did with their other friends. They always had other friends at home.

When her father told her they were coming to court for a few moons turns, she had been thrilled. Finally, she would be able to spend more than a few days with people her own age, get to hear stories from all over the realm, perhaps even make actual friends – ones who would not leave after only a few days.

But when they arrived, the stares were immediate. The disdain at her father for not paying his niece’s ransom. The pity for her, and the curiosity about whether she had been somehow corrupted by her cousin.

Making friends would not be as easy as she thought.

Worse, it seemed none of the young men even wanted to be friends with her. They were far more interested in courting her, and many of them were so persistent that it nearly scared her. And while the young women were polite, it was without much sincerity. They all looked at her in suspicion when they thought she wasn’t looking.

So, she feigned a headache and left the feast early.

Her father had remained behind. There were more lords and merchants he still wanted to talk to, it seemed. She had the sense that he would do far more to secure her betrothal than she herself would. Though she was at peace with that, she still hoped her future husband would be relatively kind and from an interesting place.

Suddenly, she realized that she had been so deep in her thoughts that she had wandered somewhere unfamiliar - in the intersection of two dark corridors. All the halls of the Red Keep looked practically identical, but she still had the sense that she had never been there before. There weren’t any windows nearby, so she did not even know what part of the castle she was in.

She stood there for a moment, wondering which pathway to take, when she heard soft footsteps behind her. She turned to face what she expected to be a servant who could direct her back to her rooms but froze when she saw who it really was.

Prince Aegon.

He looked different than he had at the feast. His distant, morose expression was gone, replaced by a sly smile and a low brow over hooded purple eyes. Even when she was still, he continued approaching, like a cat stalking a mouse.

Gods, her father had warned her about this. Had told her to stay away from the prince, and any other man who approached her like that.

She should run, she told herself. But where would she go? She didn’t know where she was, or how to get back to her rooms. Surely the prince knew the halls better than her and was likely much faster.

Her fear held her in place and numbed her enough that she didn’t feel it when the prince wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her into a dark alcove partway down one of the halls. Nor did she feel the cool stone against her back when he pushed her against the wall and pressed himself close to her.

“My dear Lady Swann,” he purred, his voice low and melodic, even when laced with darkness. “You’ve driven me absolutely mad tonight, and yet you would be so cruel as to leave without apologizing?”

What was he talking about? They hadn’t spoken at the feast. He wasn’t even there when she was introduced to the royal family. How could she have possibly offended him?

“I am sorry, my prince,” she whispered, her voice seeming foreign. “For whatever I did to make you feel this way, I am very sorry.”

He let out a laugh that sounded half like a purr as he brought his face close to hers. He ran his nose along her cheek until his mouth was a hair’s breadth away from her ear. His breath was hot and reeked of wine. “How sweet of you to apologize, my lady. Though I am still not quite satisfied. But I know a way you can make it up to me…”

All the blood left her body, leaving her hardly more than a shell. This was exactly what her father had warned her about – what she feared most about coming to the palace.

Still, she could not run. The prince was far stronger than her, and she knew her legs would betray her if she tried.

No one was coming to save her, and she could not save herself.

She bowed her head and prayed to the gods who had never answered her. Though she expected nothing from them, she hoped at least one of them would watch, so she didn’t have to endure this alone. Perhaps they would even pity her.

When she finished her prayer, she willed her body to relax. Prince Aegon made a soft sound of surprise and pulled her flush against him. One hand rose to roughly cradle her face, while the other floated down to her hip. A possessive and entirely unmannerly touch.

“Please, my prince,” she begged. “Do what you must, I will not fight you. I simply ask that you are gentle with me, and that you not leave marks upon my body. I do not want my father to know my shame.”

She felt the prince’s body stiffen, his grip around her waist so tight her breathing shallowed.

Then he released her and stepped away.

After a moment to regain her breath, she raised her head to look at the prince. He stood several steps away from her, frowning. His eyes were distant, his confusion clear. He met her gaze and shook his head slightly.

“I…” He looked almost disgusted. At what, she did not know. In fear of what he may yet do to her, she remained still, only lowering her eyes.

He scoffed, then sighed, then he left.

She counted his steps as he retreated. Ten… twenty… thirty… She reached 47 before the sound was too distant for her to hear.

Still, she did not move. Her mind raced as she tried to process every strange thing that had just happened. Her fear. The dark look in the prince’s eyes. His breath against her cheek. His grip on her– both hard and soft. How he had stepped away from her with near revulsion on his face.

While she was grateful that he had done nothing but briefly hold her, she did not understand why. Though, did it really matter, so long as she was unharmed and unspoiled?

It may have been a single minute, or many hours, but finally, Lady Swann pulled away from the wall and once again began to wander, eventually finding her way back to her rooms.

She did not sleep that night.

Aegon was sprawled across his bed, still clothed and clutching a still corked bottle of wine. There was not a chance he would make it to the Street of Silk that night, not when he could not bring himself to open the wine or undress himself.

All he could do was think about Lady fucking Swann.

The way she had so entirely captured his attention. How her dress swayed as she wandered through the castle halls. The shock in her gorgeous eyes as she realized that he was the one following her. The way her body felt against his. The soft whisper of her voice. Her words…

What the fuck did those words do to him?

Most of the women he’d approached like that had fought him – screamed, tried to push him away, or hit and scratched him, or sometimes all of it. She’d not fought him at all. She’d practically gone limp in his arms, then gave him permission to do whatever he wanted to her, so long as he didn’t leave a mark.

It was that last bit that got to him – the no marks. He’d never cared what bruises or scratches he’d left on the women he fucked. Never even looked to see if there were any before either leaving or dismissing them.

But with her… the thought of leaving marks on her confused him.

In part, it excited him. Some buried territorial instinct, perhaps because of the dragon blood that was said to run in his veins, practically preened at the idea of claiming her so thoroughly. He wanted everyone to know that she was his. It was a feeling he’d never had with any of his previous partners.

The other part, however, imagined her covered in red and purple marks and grew furious. No one and nothing – not even him – should be allowed to hurt her in any way. She was too pure, too innocent. She was a perfect white swan, and he would let no one sully her.

He just couldn't figure out why he felt that way.

Since he first learned he could, Aegon had fucked as many women as he possibly could – women of all ages, shapes, and temperaments. He had never cared for any of them in this way. Except, of course, Helaena. But even that wasn’t an exact match to what he felt now.

With Helaena, his protectiveness was because she was his sister. He loved her, and wanted to care for her, but it wasn’t a romantic love. Hells, there wasn’t even lust between them. Their children were only conceived because they knew it was expected of them. It was a struggle each time, even for Aegon.

Yet he felt so much for this girl he’d barely met, who he had very nearly dishonored, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

Still, Aegon would try. And the first step was to take care of his painfully hard cock, which had been fully at attention since he first saw his Lady Swann smile.

For two weeks, Aegon fucked as often as he could. Serving girls, noble ladies, professional whores, and even his fist when needed. None of it brought him the satisfaction he sought – the end of whatever it was he felt for Lady Swann.

It didn’t help that he saw her so often. She was at every meal and event, and even sometimes in an obscure part of the keep that he had been sure would be safe from her.

And there were always other men flirting with her. Handsome lordlings, overconfident heirs, even a few gnarled old lechers. He should have expected it, as it was clear her father brought her to the capital to find a husband, but each time he saw another man make her smile, or brush his hand with hers, or even so much as look at her with lust in his eyes, he wanted to run them through and spit on their corpses.

His rides on Sunfyre grew longer, farther, and more furious. It was not uncommon now for great bursts of golden flame to appear in the skies around King’s Landing.

Finally, Aegon broke. After sixteen days of desperate drinking, flying, and fucking, he simply could not take another moment of this turmoil. He looked out the window for a moment, letting the bright sun set his resolve, and set out to confront his tormentor.

Each afternoon, all the eligible young ladies staying at the Red Keep and in the surrounding estate houses gathered in the courtyard of the Weirwood Tree so the bachelors seeking a wife knew where to find them. Reluctantly, Lady Swann joined them.

By now, many of the women had already fully captured the attention of at least one man, so the gatherings were thankfully not as frantic as that first feast had been. And since no men had decided to focus their wooing efforts on her, she was able to simply relax with her back against the Weirwood, watch its leaves sway, and attempt to capture their beauty in her sketchbook. All in all, it was a rather peaceful way for her to spend her afternoons.

Until Prince Aegon again came looking for her.

The soft noises of conversation immediately halted, drawing her attention away from her current study of the many veins within a fallen red leaf. She looked up and saw the prince pushing aside lords and ladies alike as he stomped towards her.

He did not look like he had that night. Then, his gaze was full of lust. Now, those violet eyes only held anger. Terrible, bone chilling anger.

Several of those gathered in the courtyard fled. More still stayed, positioning themselves far enough away to satisfy decorum, but close enough that they would be able to hear everything. Though it was, in the end, unnecessary.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” The prince roared – so loudly that several birds left their perches in the tree and flew out of sight.

She was speechless, her heart pounding so fast and hard she was sure he could hear it.

“Answer me!” the prince shouted, now so close to her that she could see nothing but him. His reddened eyes, his flushed cheeks, and the furious set of his brow.

Her lips fell open, and she stumbled over her own name as she gave it to him.

“You know that’s not what I mean, girl,” Prince Aegon sighed, pursing his lips and pressing her harder into the tree. “What did you do to me?”

“My prince, I have done nothing to you,” she pled, tears spilling from her eyes. Distantly, she heard yet more people leaving the courtyard, some of them wondering aloud if they should fetch a guard, or perhaps the queen.

“What are you?” It was like he hadn’t heard her words at all. “Some kind of witch, here to ruin me? Did Rhaenyra send you to destroy my reputation so she could ensure she takes the throne?”

She was so frightened that her mind was muddled, and in her frantic search for safety, she reached out and grabbed the first thing she could find. Unfortunately, that thing was Prince Aegon’s tunic.

He blanched and looked down at her fingers clutching the worn green fabric. When he faced her again, he did not look so angry – he looked almost afraid. “What are you doing to me?”

Lady Swann suppressed a sob and pulled her hands away. “I don’t know what you mean, my prince, please.”

The prince shook his head, finally taking a step back. “What you said to me… I don’t understand it. Why did you say it? What did it mean?”

“I…” She thought back to that night, the only time she had spoken to him, when she had said so little. “I wanted you to not hurt me, that is all.”

He frowned, his brows knitted together. “But you didn’t fight back. Why?”

“What could I have done to stop you?”

“But you didn’t even try,” he nearly begged. “Why didn’t you try?”

“Because my father warned me about you,” she answered, now savoring the grounding bit of the tree’s rough bark behind her. That pain was far more pleasant than this conversation. “I thought it would be… easier if I let you take what you wanted.”

Prince Aegon just stared at her. Not making a move to move closer or touch her. Like the very idea of someone near-willingly giving him what he wanted was unbelievable.

“I’m sorry,” she said, hardly believing it. Why did she feel the need to apologize to the man who had very nearly assaulted her, and who was now no doubt causing irreparable damage to her reputation. But there was something in his eyes that made pity wrench her heart. He was a wounded animal, and she could not let it die. “I’m sorry for making you feel like this way. And I’m sorry for whoever else hurt you to make you behave in this way.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

The rage returned to his eyes, and he reached out to seize her shoulders, pressing her against the Weirwood tree until she was certain her dress would tear. “I don’t need your fucking pity,” he hissed.

He shoved her once, then stepped away. “I don’t need anything from a whore like you!”

The gathered crowd poorly hid their gasps of surprise, and not so subtly watched the prince as he stomped out of the courtyard, somehow even angrier than he had been when he arrived. But they made no attempt to hide their stares when they turned back to Lady Swann. She could practically see the gossip forming in their heads.

Not wanting to hear their speculations, she fled from the courtyard.

At least now, she might not have to marry. For no one would want her after what Prince Aegon said.

Aegon was sick of sprawling out on his bed to contemplate the pile of dog shit that was his life. So, he let himself slide ungracefully to the floor, taking his fur blanket and an overstuffed bed with him.

Instinctively, he reached for a bottle of wine from the small crate he kept by his bedside. Alas, it was empty. He’d finished it all the day before and had therefore been so drunk he had not remembered to tell a servant to restock it.

It was probably for the best. He did not deserve the holy ecstasy a truly expensive bottle of Arbor Red brought him. Not after what he’d said to Lady Swann that afternoon.

How could he be so fucking stupid?

The obvious answer was that he was, in fact, fucking stupid. Yet it still felt like something beyond that. Something within him – the feelings he could not rid himself of – had taken away what little sense he still had, and stoked the fire of his anger until he could hardly see for his rage.

If he was a better man, he would apologize. But he was not a better man. He wasn’t even a good man – perhaps he never had been. Perhaps he was incapable of being a good man. Though, a truly bad man would not have considered that he should apologize.

Nor would a truly bad man be haunted by the warmth that bloomed in his chest whenever he remembered her final words. ‘I’m sorry for whoever else hurt you to make you behave in this way.’

As he gazed at the moon through his window, he had a revelation that utterly terrified him, down to his very bones – Lady Swann’s pity felt better than anything anyone else had felt for him.

Lady Swann had not been expecting anyone to call on her. Not a single suitor had called on her the evening prior, not after what happened between her and Prince Aegon. So when her lady’s maid announced she had a visitor, she was entirely unprepared. Her dress was old, but the most comfortable she owned, her hair had been left unbraided, and her eyes were still red from weeping.

What she was most unprepared for was seeing that her visitor was none other than Prince Aegon himself.

Quickly, and despite the fear welling in her gut, she curtsied. When she stood, she did not look him in the eye. “Welcome, my prince,” she greeted, wishing that her voice was not so wavering. “It is an honor to have you visit me.”

He laughed, a rich, deep sound. “Your manners are very fine, lady. But I do not delude myself in knowing that you are neither honored nor pleased to see me.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that. He was right, of course, but his words were almost… kind? Or at the very least, not rude. Just when she opened her mouth to reply, he spoke again.

“Please, allow me to begin.” He waited for her to nod her approval before continuing. “I have come to apologize for my behavior. I have been quite rude to you – though that is a mild way of putting it.”

The prince sighed and let his shoulders droop slightly. “Your first impression of me could not have been worse. It was wrong and cruel of me to pursue you the way I did that first night. I apologize sincerely for that, though I know that is a great insult to forgive.”

“I most especially want to apologize for what I said yesterday. My words were harsh and spoken only in anger. I should not have said them in the first place, and certainly not in front of so many witnesses.” He wrung his hands, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I do not expect you to forgive me, but I hope that you will not allow my abhorrent behavior to ruin your visit. And I will take every measure to quell the rumors surrounding our encounter yesterday.”

Lady Swann was more surprised than she had been when she saw him first walk into the room. Not only had he apologized, but it seemed sincere, and almost eloquent. He was right, that forgiveness would not come today. Perhaps not ever. Yet she could not find it in her heart to hate him. At least, not yet.

“Why did you do it?” The question burst from her unconsciously. But she had to know.

Prince Aegon again sighed, then ran a hand through his unkempt, greasy hair. “As for why I followed you, there’s not a good excuse, I simply wanted to have you. At first, it was to see if you were as skilled as your sister… or cousin? The Black Swan, I mean.”

She felt her cheeks flush at the mention. Her stranger of a cousin would never stop haunting her. “She is my cousin.”

“Right, well,” he stared intently at her shoes peeking out from under the too short hem of her dress. “I wanted to find that out, but also, you were simply beautiful that night. And you are now, too, of course! But at the feast, I truly could not take my eyes off you. I needed you.”

“And yet you did not take me, as you have so many other women.”

“Yes, well…” He finally looked in her eyes again, but looked away not a moment later. “It was what you said, about not wanting me to leave marks. None had ever asked me that before, and imagining you bruised was simply too much for me. I could not bring myself to do it.

“But then, I couldn’t get you out of my head. Even when I was with…” his flush faded into a blanche, “No matter what I did, I could not stop thinking of you. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before, so I was, honestly, frightened. I let my fear turn to anger and my anger turn on you. I’m sorry.”

Lady Swann was silent, not knowing how to respond to the prince. He apparently took it as a sign she wanted him to continue.

“Then what you said, about someone hurting me and making me this way, that frightened me, too.” He laughed, the sound pained and inauthentic. “Because I don’t believe anyone made me this way, I’m just… rotten.”

At that, she finally found her words. “No one is rotten from the beginning,” she said, quoting something her Septa had once told her. “Everyone in born good, it is what happens to them and what they experience that rots them.”

Prince Aegon smiled. “That is a sweet sentiment, but I don’t think I agree. I cannot remember a single moment where I felt good.”

“For that, I am very sorry. That is something no one should feel.”

He looked at her intensely, as though she held some long-sought answers. “It is a bad feeling, yes. Though, you make me feel like not all of me is rotten. Like there is some shred of me that still longs for goodness. And you are so good…”

She smiled softly, unsure why a small thrill went through her at the words. “We have spoked very little; how can I make you feel that way?”

“I don’t know… but, if you are willing, I would very much like to find out why. And I don’t want to lose this feeling. If you would allow it, may I call on you again?”

There was something different in his eyes. Something that she only now noticed, as his eyes were no longer clouded by rage or lust. A great sadness – an eternal sadness. Like an entire ocean of tears, or an immortal grief.

She wanted to chase that sadness away. So, she inclined her head to hide her smile. “I will allow it, my prince.”

“Please, I would prefer you use my name.” He blushed nearly scarlet as he made the request, and smiled bashfully.

“Very well. I will allow you to visit me again, Aegon.”

Prince Aegon and Lady Swann began their friendship sitting in stuffed chairs on opposite sides of her solar. He was careful not to do or say anything that could be possibly misconstrued as a romantic or sexual advance. He wanted her to feel safe and comfortable. Most of all, he wanted her to like him. It didn’t matter if she ever felt the same longing he felt for her, so long as he could be near her, he was content.

After three turns of the moon, they began sitting on the couch together – but as far apart as they could be. Slowly, as she began to feel more comfortable looking him in the eyes, smiling at him, or even laughing at something he said, he began to return the gestures. He even grew comfortable enough to start trying to make her smile or laugh. Even though his heart sank every time he saw it, knowing he would never get to kiss it away.

After five more moon’s turns, they began to move closer. An inch every few days, until their legs were nearly touching. Aegon had to suppress the shiver than raced through his body each time they accidentally touched.

By the next moon’s turn, they hardly ever sat without touching – much to his delight. Some days, she would rest her head on his shoulder. Others, he would lie with his head in her lap. And on rare occasions, they laid across the couch together, with Aegon’s arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close.

He could almost be content with just this, not being able to kiss or touch her as he truly wanted to. But he knew it would one day disappear. She would marry, he would never see her again, and he would go right back to the way he was before her.

So, he cherished their afternoons together while he could. They never spoke about anything of consequence, but still, Aegon left her each day feeling happier than he had when he walked into her solar. And a little sad, for he knew he wouldn’t get to talk to her until the next day, and that one day, the conversation would be their last.

It usually took him at least a week to realize that they had spoken about something of consequence. Lady Swann had hidden a revelation she had somewhere within her gentle words, having figured out the source of his buried anger or a wrong that was done to him. Aegon never understood immediately, but once he did, he ran back to her the next day to talk more about how she knew, and what he could do to fix it.

He eventually came to privately call their meetings ‘good man lessons,’ for even though they never spoke of ancient philosophy or even religious morality, Lady Swan had a way of making him see more clearly the mistakes he had made and how he could be a better man.

He also came to privately calling her ‘hontītsos.’ Little bird. His little bird. The White Swan who sat on his shoulder and whispered her wisdom into his ear. Perhaps not the best metaphor, as swans were far too large to perch on his shoulder, and notoriously violent. But since it was only between them, he did not feel the need to come up with something cleverer.

As their friendship neared the end of its first year, he genuinely thought he’d been doing better. A better friend. A better brother. A better husband and father. A better son.

That had been his folly.

At the evening meal one night, he had spoken to his father. He tried to speak to him in the same way Lady Swann spoke to him when they first struck up their friendship, simply asking about the king’s day and if anything interesting happened.

Then the king called him ‘Daemon.’

His own father did not recognize him – his firstborn son.

He supposed it was to be expected. After all, the old man was decrepit and half-rotted beneath his gaudy golden mask. Surely that decay would have extended to his mind by now, if it hadn’t long ago. But still, it stung.

Aegon was the son his father had dreamed of, according to his mother. The boy fated to wear the conqueror’s crown. It seemed Viserys had forgotten that dream as well. He never forgot Rhaenyra. Only Aegon and his full-blooded siblings.

It was a hurt Aegon thought he was accustomed to. He remembered so clearly how his father had all but ignored him when he was young, especially once Rhaenyra’s bastards came along. He attempted to befriended the little runts to draw his father’s attention – to no avail. Though, he had been quite a shit in his youth.

Still, he had thought all his efforts to become a better man would make his father notice him, perhaps finally see him as a suitable son and or even an heir. He felt so foolish to think that. But he was comforted, in some small part, that he would talk to Lady Swann about it the next day. Then she would make him feel better. She would make him feel like the man he was trying so desperately to be.

The hours he had to wait to be beside her again were hell, but finally, he found himself once more lounging on a couch in her solar, his legs hanging over the armrest while his head was laid in Lady Swann’s lap. Her fingers combing through his hair was absolute bliss. Though they halted when he blurted out the sentence that had been clanging in his head since dinner the night before.

“You don’t want to be king?” she asked in disbelief, raising her brows in surprise.

Aegon smiled at the expression, she looked so pretty today. He nodded up at her. “To save my family, I would do it. But no, it is not what I would choose for myself.”

A short silence passed before she responded. He loved that, how she thought so carefully before speaking every time. “What would you choose for yourself, if you were given the chance?”

The question weighed on him like an anvil of iron on his chest. He had never even considered another option before. It had always been either become king, or be killed by Rhaenyra to eliminate any threats to her throne.

“I don’t know really,” he finally answered. “I never let myself think about it for too long.”

“Think about it now, then.”

He both loved and loathed how she challenged him. Of course, he knew it was good for him, but some days he just wanted to relax and bask in her very presence. She was the only comfort, save for his children, that he had found in this godsforsaken place. At least, since he had stopped drinking and fucking with abandon. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the Street of Silk or had drunk more than a single goblet of wine at a meal.

“I’d leave Westeros,” he declared. “There are too many memories here. To many reminders.”

She thought about her answer for a moment, her eyes narrowing in the adorable way they always did when she was thinking very hard. “Wouldn’t you miss your family?”

“Yes, of course.” He began to truly think about the possibility, of how it would happen – How he could make it happen. “Perhaps I could take Helaena and the children with me. She would be glad to leave court, and the children are young enough that they wouldn’t remember anything before we left. Mother and Aemond wouldn’t leave, nor Daeron. But I would write to them often. More to mother than my brothers.

“I think I’d go to Braavos. I want to see that big statue they have and experience the cold. And I’d like to have my own boat to navigate the canals. That would be fun. I could be a fisherman! Though I’d have to first learn to fish… fisherman go out in the mornings, don’t they?” He looked up at her for confirmation. Of course, she would know, she knew everything, it seemed.

“I believe so,” she said with a mischievous smile. It was not one she wore often, but one he savored each time he saw it. “Which means you would have to learn to wake quite early. Do you think you could do so?”

“I could!” He feigned offense, but he knew she was right. Even now that his routine had changed, he still often didn’t wake until the sun was well into the sky. “But I’d have to find something to do the rest of the day. Hmm…”

Aegon stared at the ceiling, imagining what he could do if he was free of his obligations, if he would finally be able to do what he wanted. “I could learn to paint? Yes, I think I’d like that – to be able to create something beautiful. All by myself.”

She smiled down at him, curling a lock of his hair around her finger. The smile was genuine, he could tell, but laced with sadness. “That sounds like a wonderful life.”

“Of course, I would only go if you went with me.” He had not meant to say it. He didn’t want to scare her, not after spending so long rebuilding what he had broken with his first words to her. And yet, it was true. If he was imagining a perfect life, it would be incomplete without her there beside him.

“Aegon, I…” her smile had faded, leaving her looking down at him with wide, sad eyes.

“I would be too scared to be alone,” he said, raising himself from her lap so he could look her in the eyes. The temptation to reach out and take her hand was immense, but he resisted – he had already fucked this up enough today. “I’d need someone to talk to. Helaena and the children… I love them, but I can’t talk to them. Not in the way I do with you.”

She was silent for a long while – far longer than Aegon was really comfortable with. Then, she finally said the best thing he’d ever heard.

“I think I would like that, too.”

SWANN POV: After she tells him that her father would take her home soon, Aegon admits to LS that he loves her, and wishes that he’d met her before he’d been forced to marry Helaena because he loves her. Aegon comes up with an idea to keep her in King’s Landing

Lady Swann sighed in contentment as she laid upon the couch with Aegon in comfortable silence. She had not wanted to let their conversation end – not today. So, they sent for their evening meal to be delivered to her solar and continued to talk.

By now, Aegon’s eyes were closed as he rested his head in her lap while she absentmindedly traced the patterns of embroidery on his tunic, considering how impossible she once would have found the arrangement when she first came to the Red Keep. He had been so cruel to her those first weeks. She had been afraid of him. And now, she could not imagine life without him.

Did it make her weak, that she could forgive what he had done to her, and what he had tried to do? Perhaps she should have shouted his wrongdoings from the top of the highest tower, but she didn’t. And she could not bring herself to regret it.

“Hontītsos?”

She let out a pleased hum at the sound of the nickname, especially when his voice was so deep and gravelly from exhaustion. “Yes, my prince?”

Aegon opened his eyes, the peace fading from his face as he looked into her eyes. He looked unsure, almost afraid. It was a look she had not seen since he first came to her asking for her friendship and aid. She hoped it would vanish soon. She did not want to end this night sadly.

“Am I a good man?”

Her hand immediately stopped in its path as she considered the question.

“You have a good heart, Aegon,” she said, resuming her gentle caresses.

Aegon frowned. “That is not the same thing.”

“No, it is not.” She placed one hand over his heart, feeling it falter and race, and the other on his cheek to ensure his gaze remained on her. “You have done terrible, wicked things. Things that a good man would not do.”

He nodded, all too aware of his past evils. She watched his eyes glaze as he remembered his past misdeeds and knew how sharply his regrets pained him. His chin wobbled as he looked back up at her, tears slipping out of his eyes. “Will I always be wicked?”

“No,” she assured, wiping away his tears. “But when you act on what your good heart tells you to do, when you atone for the wickedness of your past, I believe you will become a good man.”

He smiled as his tears fell, leaving shining pathways on his face. She could not resist tracing them with her little finger.

“I think I am in love with you, hontītsos.”

Her heart skipped a beat, then another, before it began to beat again.

“You only ‘think?’ you’re in love with me?” She tried to keep her voice light and bordering on humor, but she did not think she succeeded.

“Well… I have never felt love before, so I don’t know what it’s like.” Aegon said, like he was talking about the simplest thing in the world. “But I think what I feel when I see you, or hear your voice, or feel your touch… I think that might be love.”

Perhaps she had fallen asleep on the couch, and this was some wild dream. “I would describe to you what love feels like, but I am afraid I don’t know myself. I have only ever read of how love feels.”

“Then tell me what you have read, please. I need to know.”

She did not look at him as she recalled what she’d read in her favorite storybook. “When you love someone, you feel it in your heart. It feels like it can only truly beat when you are with the person you love, and when you are apart, it aches for them.”

At last, she looked back at Aegon. “Is that what you feel?”

There was no hint of hesitation or doubt on his face when he smiled. “Yes. That is exactly what I feel.”

Again, her heart stopped. But her mind raced. This was real. Aegon had just declared his love for her. The man who had tried to take her virginity unwilling and publicly called her a whore, now he loved her.

Why did that fact make her so happy?

In the past months, he had become so much more than that man who had so easily made her miserable. He had practically become a new man. That man, she liked very, very much. It had been so easy to define love while she was looking at him. Was that because…?

“I feel that way, too.” Her words were soft and unconfident, but Aegon beamed at her, nevertheless. “But I –”

“No!” he raised a hand to cup her cheek. “No buts. Buts mean something is wrong, and how can anything be wrong right now?”

“My father is taking me back to Stonehelm in ten days.”

SWANN POV: Aegon tells Lady Swann that Aemond has agreed to their proposal. Overjoyed, she kisses him, and they make love for the first time.

“I need you to propose to Lady Swann,” Aegon told Aemond as he prepared for his morning training with Criston Cole.

Aemond stared back at him with a face like stone. How could he be so damn menacing with only one eye?

“And why do you need that?” Aemond turned his back on his brother as he spoke, carefully selecting a weapon from a table full of dozens of knives, daggers, swords, axes, and a few weapons Aegon could not name.

It may not have been the best idea to ask for this favor when there were so many weapons around.

Aegon sighed, “Because her father will take her home if she does not find a marriage within the next nine days.”

Aemond faced him again, staring at him as he ran his nail along the edge of his sword. “And why does that matter to you, brother?”

Bastard. Aemond had grown from an annoying twat to a despicable bastard – though he would never say that out loud. “She…” he sputtered. “She has become a close friend. She does not want to leave the capital, so I am trying to do her a favor.”

“So, I must marry her, rather than any other man within the city?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Can you stop asking me so many questions?”

“I will if you answer me.”

“Fuck you,” Aegon grumbled. Though Aemond didn’t react, it was clear he’d heard it. “It’s because… it would be a beneficial arrangement for both of you.”

Aemond cocked his head. “How would it be beneficial for me?”

“You said you would stop asking questions.”

“Your answer prompted more.”

“I hate you so much,” Aegon sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He was already sweating in the morning heat, yet Aemond looked perfectly comfortable and dry. “It would benefit you because it would stop mother and Otto from hounding you to find a bride. And you wouldn’t be expected to perform the normal duties of a husband.”

At that, Aemond raised a suspicious brow. “What duties are you referring to?”

With a smirk, Aegon whispered, “Your duties in the bedchamber.”

His eye widening, Aemond glanced around the training yard and lowered his voice to not be heard. “We would still be expected to produce an heir.”

“Ah, but there is another way to seed her with Valyrian stock, dear brother,” Aegon said with a triumphant waggle of his brows.

Aemond said nothing for a moment, then gave the barest hint of a smile. “I had my suspicions. Thank you for confirming them.”

“So, you’ll do it?”

“I will.” Aemond sheathed his sword and began walking away. “Would you convey the proposal to her, I think she would enjoy it more coming from you.”

Lady Swann had been sitting on the same spot on the couch for so long that the cushion below her had sunk several inches. She simply could not move. Now when, at any moment, Aegon could walk through the door and change her life forever.

The sun had reached its peak when he finally appeared, a broad smile across his face.

“Aemond agreed?”

“He did.”

She did not know what possessed her, but she threw herself off the couch and into his arms, crashing her lips against his. The kiss was sloppy and unskilled, but full of hunger and passion. She figured that Aegon wasn’t put off by her lack of experience by the way he growled into her mouth.

He forced her to pull away to catch her breath, which was a good thing, as she would have gladly kissed him until she suffocated. With a smile, he brushed her hair away from her face and pressed his forehead to his.

“Why Lady Swann,” he teased. “How improper you are. Shouldn’t you wait to give me your virtue until after you’ve married my brother?”

She did not wait, much to Aegon’s delight. She gladly allowed him to show her everything he’d ever learned about pleasing a woman. To his surprise, he even discovered some new tricks in his time with her.

They spent every night together, making love until they fell asleep in each other’s arms. Aegon introduced her to his children and Helaena, who were all immediately taken with her. As if there was any other possibility. And eventually, he became proficient in pretending that he was not about to stab Aemond when he saw him standing next to her, holding her hand as was proper for a betrothed pair. Eventually.

Aegon was happier than he had ever been. It was wonderful.

And it all fell to shit so fast.

The sniveling bastard who had taken Aemond’s eye was officially declared the true heir of Driftmark. After, the king commanded a family dinner, which had gone about as well as Aegon expected – though he did not think it would be Aemond who struck the final blow.

Then, the king did the kindest thing he’d ever done for his younger children, and promptly died. The relief was short-lived, however. Otto and his mother sent guards to pull him out of Lady Swann’s arm and truss him up for his coronation, which had somehow been even worse than the dinner.

Lady Swann had been inconsolable that night, distraught that Rhaenys and her dragon had come so close to killing him. Aegon promised the next day would be better, but it was not. Otto smashed her betrothal to Aemond so he could make a more advantageous match in preparation for the war Aegon actually prayed would not occur.

Aemond struck the final blow there, too. Killing little Luke Velaryon in the dark skies above Storm’s End. At least the betrothal with one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters remained secure.

But that slight would not go unpunished. Mere weeks later, assassins had entered the keep, and slew Jaehaerys, Aegon’s heir. Right in front of his mother and siblings. It was truly a war then.

No one could know what would happen, and no one was safe.

Aegon had already endured the loss of one of the people he loved the most, he could not endure it again. So, his remaining children, Jaehaera and Maelor, were sent away for their safety.

As was Lady Swann.

She had fought him fiercely. But their relationship was still not publicly known, and if the news somehow came out, she would no doubt be Daemon and Rhaenyra’s first target. It was for that same reason that Aegon forbade her from contacting him. He would send messages when he could – he had worked out an extensive, illogical route with Grand Maester Orwyle that would make them impossible to track. Even then, the messages would be few.

Eventually, she agreed to go. Only after Aegon had broken down in tears in front of her, begging her in a way entirely unbecoming of a king. But she had to be safe.

So, six days after the loss of his son, Aegon stood in his rooms – his old room, now – and looked down at the courtyard and his beloved got in her wheelhouse and went far away.

My love,

It had been less than a moons turn, and already, I miss you desperately. I hope you have settled back into Stonehelm well, and that you are safe and comfortable. Though I am glad you are safe, I still find myself aching for your voice, your smile, your touch. Getting them back is my greatest motivation to win this war.

As much as I do miss you, I told you that I would only contact you when it was necessary, and I will hold to that. In ten days, Aemond and I will be flying to Rook’s Rest to join the siege. It is our hope that this will draw Rhaenyra or Daemon, or perhaps both, to come to their ally’s rescue. If all goes well, which I am confident it will, we will cripple the Blacks so thoroughly that the war will be all but won.

Pray for me, darling. Though I am confident, this is my first battle, and I admit that I do feel somewhat nervous. But only slightly! You know your love is a brave, strong man, and I do not want you to think otherwise.

With luck, I will see you soon, my hontītsos,

Aegon

Everything hurt.

Aegon was burning – one moment with fire, the next with ice, as if he was torn between two hells.

It was hard to tell what hurt the most. Was it the ringing in his ears, echoing unending through his head? Was it the way his every breath seemed to shatter his bones anew? Or was it the impossibly heavy weight upon his left arm that felt like it was made purely from the God’s wrath?

He did not have time to decide before the world faded to black. It was almost a relief – but not one long lived.

His pain had not lessened in however long he’d been in a dreamless sleep. In fact, it seemed worse.

No longer was he frozen with the pain; his eyes screwed shut of their own accord. When he awoke, the bright light of whatever hell the gods had condemned him to shone bright as the fires of the sun itself.

There were others in this hell, whispering around him, but he could only make out their shapes against the brightness. We’re they his fellow damned, or his tormentors?

That question was answered when a searing pain ripped through his arm, worsening the agony it was already providing him.

Aegon screamed. A sound to wake both demons and angels.

They were cutting through him, slicing his flesh away bit by bit. When they had fully disassembled him, would they put him back together only to start again?

Oh gods, he was not in the hells.

His eyes finally adjusted to the brightness, and he wished he was in the hells. But no, that was Grand Maester Orwyle standing above him, a small, sharp knife in his hand. There was some Maester in training beside him, looking nearly ill as he held up a great bowl.

Aemond. Aemond was there, standing in the corner next to their grandsire and Larys Strong. They all stared at him in both fear and disgust. Aegon could swear he even saw a tear run down Aemond’s cheek.

Worst of all, his mother was there, kneeling by his bedside, his right hand clasped in hers as she wept and prayed.

Each slice of Orwyle’s knife brought a new agony, sending images racing through his mind with every pounding heartbeat.

The walls of Rook’s Rest rising on the horizon. A great army was below him. The shape forming in the distance, growing closer with each beat of its wing.

For a moment, he caught a glimpse of read scales. Caraxes? Had Daemon come? Was it he who had done this to Aegon?

No, not Caraxes. Meleys. Princess Rhaenys had done this to him. He remembered now. The sickening sound of claws ripping through scales. Sunfyre’s horrible howls of pain. Fire. Blood. Death.

What happened to Rhaenys? Had they killed her, or had she escaped? Aegon vaguely saw the massive form of Vhagar racing towards him. Perhaps after he and Sunfyre had fallen, Aemond had finished her off.

Gods, Sunfyre. Where was he? Was he as hurt as Aegon was? Who was tending to his wounds?

His throat burned as he struggled to force breath and words out, but eventually, he succeeded.

“Sunfyre… alive?”

It was Aemond who finally responded. “Yes, he is alive. He is fine, brother. Do not worry for him.”

Funny, Aegon thought, how his genius brother could somehow be such a terrible liar. It was a wonder how anyone believed his engagement to Lady Swann to be genuine.

Lady Swann.

Was she here? Did she know what happened to him? Was she on her way to King’s Landing to be by her side? Was she safe?

“Hontītsos…?”

Again, Aemond answered, his voice hesitant and words vague. “She is safe, should I send for her?”

“No!” The shout sent throbbing pain echoing through him like the ringing of a bell. “She can’t see! She can’t see!”

He did not know what he looked like, but he knew it couldn’t be pleasant. She could not see him like this, broken and pitiful. Not until he was strong once again.

His mother was asking rapid questions. Who was ‘hontītsos?’ Why did her sons worry for her safety? Why couldn’t she see him?

Instinctively, Aegon turned away from her, seeking to escape the questions which he could not answer.

It was a mistake.

He finally saw what Orwyle was doing to cause him such pain.

The skin of his left arm had gone silver, the metal shining beneath the blood and soot stains. No, not silver, steel.

His fucking armor has melted into his skin.

Now, Orwyle was carving it off, bit by bit, as though he was selecting the finest cuts of meat from a roast.

Aegon screamed anew, and he did not stop until darkness again swept him into a merciful dreamless sleep.

My Dearest Lady Swann,

My brother asked me not to write to you, but I could not reconcile myself with keeping you ignorant of this. I know it may cause you pain, and for that, I apologize. But you deserve this knowledge.

I am sure that, by now, you have received news of the battle at Rook’s Rest, or if not, that it will arrive soon. The battle was a great victory, as we were able to end the threat of at least one of my half-sister’s dragonriders. It is a shame, however, to lose a dragon as magnificent as Meleys.

Apologies, that is not the purpose of this message.

In the battle, Aegon was gravely wounded. I will spare you the details, as I have no desire to cause you further distress. However, I will tell that the Maesters say it is quite likely he will live, though they fear complete recovery impossible.

For now, he is confined to his bed and given a substantial amount of milk of the poppy to keep the worst of his pains away. But he is not well, and likely will not be for some time. It is for this reason that the Small Council has bestowed upon me the title of Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm, so that Aegon may focus on his recovery rather than the fight for his throne.

I will continue to urge him to write to you, but I cannot guarantee my success. When I spoke with him of you, he was quite adamant that you could not know the severity of his injuries. I tried to counsel him otherwise, but he stood firm. I believe he fears how you would react if you saw him in his current state. He would not want to frighten you or face your revulsion – which I have told him is not something you could ever feel for him.

If I cannot convince him to write to you, I will take up the duty myself. I know how dearly you care for each other, and I would be remiss if your only remaining connection was severed. As with Aegon’s messages, mine will likely be infrequent and brief. But they will come, my lady, I assure you of that.

I hope you remain well. I will pray for you and Aegon both.

With best wishes,

Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen, Protector of the Realm

Lady Swann ran to Stonehelm’s Sept, the letter still in hand as she fell to the marble floors. There she stayed until the sun had set and then threatened to rise again, praying and weeping. She was sure that if Aegon died, she would die too.

Aemond sent her no good news. There were small victories, yes. But they were far outweighed by tragedy.

Helaena was still not recovering from her grief.

Nor was Sunfyre recovering from his injuries.

Maelor was dead.

Jaehaera missing.

Cole had been killed.

King’s Landing was taken, Aegon’s whereabouts a secret.

That was the last letter she received from her former betrothed. It was not until weeks later that she learned why: Aemond had been killed at the God’s Eye, and he took Daemon with him into the lake’s cold depths, along with both their dragons.

She was truly alone now, and she did not even know where Aegon was, or if he was still alive.

Her routine became nothing more than spending each day praying in the Sept. She ate only at dawn and then again whenever she finally returned to her rooms – sometimes at dusk, sometimes while the moon was still high in the sky.

It was a shell of a life, but it suited her. She was, herself, a shell of a woman.

Until finally the news came – in a letter written in a familiar hand.

Aegon was alive, and on his way back to King’s Landing from Dragonstone, where he had been since fleeing the castle. He had captured Rhaenyra, and with Sunfyre as his weapon, finally ended the war.

He was coming home, and he asked that she join him as soon as she was able.

…Though we are victorious, I do not find myself feeling so. But it is my hope, that once you are back in my arms, all will truly be righted…

She was in a wheelhouse by the next morning.

The landscapes of the Stormlands and Crownlands passed through the windows of Lady Swann’s wheelhouse in a blur. Though the journey to the capital took just over two weeks, it seemed to her that it passed in mere moments – though some days it felt like an eternity.

King’s Landing itself was little more than a mass of pale stone and red tile, the Red Keep only a mountain of rusty brick.

There was only one thing that mattered to her, one word that repeated in her head like the ringing of bells – Aegon, Aegon, Aegon.

The queen, or the former queen, greeted her in the bailey, or at least she thought she did. Others may have been there as well. But she’s paid no attention to them. She burst through the great doors as quickly as she could.

She ran through the labyrinthine halls of the keep with little care of who saw her or who was in her way. Thankfully, most leapt out of her way the moment they saw her. Only one person, a young servant girl she recognized, even spoke to her. She was grateful for the girl, for she had shouted that Aegon was now in the King’s chambers – he had not yet been moved when she left.

So, she found herself at the carved wooden doors of the the King’s chambers. Doors she had never passed through before. Doors which were the only barrier between her and her love.

Only a moment’s hesitation passed until she swung those mighty doors open.

Aegon.

Someone must have told him she had arrived, for he was waiting for her by the eastern window, framed in gold by the setting sun. He was seated in a large chair with two wheels upon its sides, his legs covered with a heavily embroidered blanket. His eyes still shone as brightly as she remembered, their corners wrinkled slightly as he smiled.

But that smile wavered, and his eyes filled with tears. For a moment, he reached out to her.

“They’re all gone,” he wept. His voice was rasping, and weaker than it had been. But the agony in his words was clear as glass.

She ran to him, kneeling at his feet and took both his hands – one precisely as it had been when she left, one now gnarled and scarred – and placed them on her cheeks. To let him feel her warmth, her tears, her life, which he himself had ensured.

“I’m still here, my love,” she whispered. “I’m still here, and I will never leave you again.”

Aegon gripped her tighter as he lowered his head, placing a gentle kiss to her temple before resting his brow against hers. “You’re here. You’re alive… thank the fucking gods.”

She laughed for a moment, until tears overtook her as well, and she simply held him and wept with him.

It was long enough for the sun to complete its descent before Aegon finally broke their embrace. He pulled away, his hands still cradling her face, and smiled sadly. “I am so sorry you must see me like this, hontītsos. You deserve more than a broken man.”

Her brow furrowed in anger. How dare he think such cruelty about himself?

“You are anything but broken,” she insisted, holding his wounded hand in her own. “You bear scars, yes, but you have not been broken. You have survived what would have killed other men three times over, what would have driven them mad. I do not see a broken man before me, I see a man stronger than anything. A man I love with all I am.”

Aegon gave her a watery smile, obviously struggling to hold back more tears. His mouth twitched like he wanted to speak, but it took him long minutes to finally do so. “I only survived it all because I knew I must live to see you, at least one last time.”

“I am here now, and you will see me every day for the rest of our lives. I promise.” She would ensure it, even if she had to move mountains to make it true. They would never lose each other again.

She placed her hands over his and lowered them to cup her neck – exactly as he’d liked it when he kissed her. Then, she put one hand on his hip, and the other on his scarred cheek. “Does this hurt?”

He let out a breath laugh and shook his head. “No. I fact, the feeling is distant, as if it’s hardly there.”

“So, will you feel it if I kiss you?”

“I think there is only one way to find out, hontītsos.”

She dove for his lips without hesitation, kissing him with all the pent-up love or more than a year gone by since she’d last had this opportunity. His lips felt exactly the same – thank the gods – though there were moments when her nose would brush against the raised skin of his scars and remind her of what had happened to him. But those memories only made her kiss him harder, deeper. She never wanted to stop.

It was Aegon who pulled away. Only slightly, so there was just enough space between them for him to speak. “Marry me, my lady Swann.”

Her mouth fell open in surprise. She never thought she would ever hear those words for him. It had always been impossible. But now…

“You need a new queen,” she whispered in realization.

Aegon nodded solemnly. “And new heirs.”

“Jaehaera isn’t your heir?”

He laughed, though there was no joy in his eyes. Only grief. “After all that’s happened, I would have to be incredibly stupid to try naming a girl as my heir.”

She supposed it was true. Though there were few Targaryens left to contest the choice if he made it. Still, he wanted to marry her.

There were no more false betrothals, no more sneaking around the castle, no more lying to everyone about how they truly felt about each other. At last, they would be able to publicly declare their love for each other, to sleep in the same bed without fear of someone finding them, to be able to finally do everything they wanted to do, together.

It was far beyond the paltry dreams they’d allowed themselves. It was perfect.

“Of course I will marry you, Aegon. Nothing would make me happier.”

He kissed her again, and they did not stop until the morning.

Only a few days later, Aegon sat alone in the same wheelhouse that had once taken him to his coronation – what he’d thought to be his final damning. Perhaps it had been, but it was hard to feel like a damned man that day.

For it was the day he was to make Lady Swann his lady wife.

The morning of his wedding to Helaena, he’d gotten so drunk that Aemond had to keep him standing through the ceremony. If only he could still have them with him, to laugh about the memory.

He would not get drunk today. He wanted to remember every detail of this glorious day – the day that would forever seal his victory in this horrid conflict.

Though, perhaps he would take one or two sips of the wine bottle someone had put in the wheelhouse, just to calm his nerves. He truly feared that she would look so beautiful that he would forget his vows, or burst into tears, or even just faint at the sight of her.

So, he took one sip, then another, then stopped himself. He did not want to over-imbibe when he had not done so for so long. It would not do to appear out of sorts at his wedding. This would be a happy day.

The wheelhouse was halfway up the serpentine steps when he felt the first pains.

At first, it was easy to dismiss it as the result of nerves, or the winding ride, or even the burn of the wine in his throat.

But then it got worse. So, so much worse.

It started in his stomach, then spread to his chest. From there, it radiated through all his limbs and climbed up his throat with teeth and claws and rage.

He was burning again. But there was no fire. He was burning from the inside.

By the time he realized it was poison, he no longer had the strength to call for help.

He fell back in his seat, the goblet tumbling to the ground and spilling the tainted wine over the floorboards. Already, his breath was becoming shallow, his vision blurring, and his body numbing.

But he did not think of who had done this to him, or why. What did it matter? It was done.

One last word escaped his lips, one last thought echoed in his fading mind.

Aegon whispered her name as he realized he would not get to see her in her wedding gown.

Then he died.

Lady Swann knelt on the stones of the middle bailey, her white gown stained with tears and dirt and blood. Everything was perfect, and then it wasn’t.

The screaming of the footman had drawn them from within the Sept. Every person who saw what lay within the wheelhouse also began screaming. Except for her.

She just knelt there, unable to even climb into the wheelhouse to sit beside him – his body.

His skin had gone gray, a fowl, unnatural color. Veins were visible beneath his skin, a darker shade of grey. As if his very blood had turned to stone. There was no color on him at all, save for the lovely violet of his eyes, and the horrible stain of red spilling from his mouth.

Someone was saying her name. Whispering it. Crying it. Screaming it. But it was distant – as if it were being said across the narrow sea. And the sound of her name, the once familiar letters and syllables, now seemed foreign. Like it no longer truly meant anything. Like it no longer belonged to her.

She had been called so many things. The White Swan. Prince Aemond’s betrothed, then that poor spurned girl. The future queen. Hontītsos.

What would they call her now?

It didn’t matter. She knew who she was.

She was the girl who loved Aegon Targaryen.

But Aegon was dead.

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